E  •  F-  B  ENSON 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 
FREDERIC  THOMAS  BLANCHARD 


ARUNDEL 


E.  F.  HENSON 


ARUNDEL 


BY 

E.  F.  BENSON 

AUTHOR  or  "  DODO,"  "  MBS.  AMES,"  ETC. 


"And  for  those  who  follow  the  gleam  there 
is  always  light  sufficient  to  show  them  their 
way.  .  .  ." 


Gurvr/ed  and  Ccn(!cmned 
21.  ;'cath  Naval  District 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  IL  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1915 
By  Geobge  H.  Doran  Compai*t 


CONTENTS 


PROLOGUE 


CHAPTEB  PAQB 

I.  The  Call  From   Witiioit        ....  7 

II.  The  Kiddle   (Jkows W'l 

III.  rOMhX)KTAHLE    MhS.    IIaNCOCK       ....  51 

\\.  rOMtXJKTABLE    PlAXS 83 

V.  CoMtX)RTABLE   SETTLEMENTS           ....  104 

VI.  Elizabeth   Enters l.U 

.;VII.  The  Intermezzo 158 

VIII.  The  Mountain-top 186 

IX.  Edward's  Absence 207 

X.  Edward's  Return 229 

XI.  The  Telegram 253 

XII.  April  E\iining 279 

XIII.  The  Grisly  Kittens 307 

XIV.  Heart's  Desire 330 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

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ARUNDEL 

PROLOGUE 
CHAPTER    I 

THE  CALL  FROM  WITHOUT 

'Colonel  Fanshawe  was  riding  slowly  back  to  his 
bungalow  about  an  hour  before  the  sunset  of  a  hot 
and  brilliant  day  in  the  middle  of  March.  He  had 
spent  a  long  day  in  the  satldle,  for  the  Commander- 
in-Chief  of  the  Indian  Forces  was  at  Peshawar  on  a 
visit  of  inspection,  and  he  had  reviewed  and  in- 
spected and  inspected  and  reviewed  and  given 
medals  and  colours  and  compliments  and  criticism 
till  the  whole  garrison,  who  had  been  under  arms  on 
the  parade  ground  since  an  early  hour  that  morning, 
was  ready  to  drop  with  a  well-earned  fatigue.  That 
evening  there  was  to  be  a  great  dinner-party  fol- 
lowed by  a  dance  at  the  house  of  the  Resident.  To- 
morrow the  Commander-in-Chief  was  to  go  up  the 
Khyber  pass,  returning  just  in  time  to  catch  the 
night  train  to  Lahore,  arriving  there  at  daybreak, 
and  prepared  to  spend  another  day  similar  to  this. 
And  yet,  so  reflected  Colonel  Fanshawe,  he  was 
made,  to  all  appearance,  of  flesh  and  blood,  exactly 
like  anybody  else :  indeed,  he  was  endowed  with  flesh 
to  a  somewhat  phenomenal  extent;  for,  though  not 
of  unusual  height,  he  swung  a  full  eighteen  stone 
into  his  saddle,  ate  and  drank  in  perfectly  amazing 
quantities,    and,    without    doubt,    would    to-night 

7 


8  ARUNDEL 

prance  genially  and  colossally  from  beginning  to  end 
of  every  dance  with  a  succession  of  the  prettiest  girls 
in  Peshawar.  It  was  equally  certain  that  at  the  con- 
clusion he  would  go  in  person  to  the  bandmaster  and 
beg  as  a  personal  favour  for  an  extra  or  two.  .  .  . 
And  Colonel  Fanshawe,  lean  and  slight  and  in  ex- 
cellent condition,  felt  himself  a  pigmy  and  an  in- 
valid in  contrast  with  this  indefatigable  elephant 
who  all  day  had  seemed  only  to  wax  in  energy  and 
boisterousness  and  monumental  briskness.  It  was 
as  if  some  huge  Government  building  had  burst  into 
active  life:  John  Bull  himself,  as  in  the  pages  of 
some  patriotic  print,  had  become  incarnate,  com- 
mandmg  and  guffawing  and  perspiring. 

But  the  day,  though  fatiguing  to  everybody  else 
except  the  Commander-in-Chief,  had  been  highly 
satisfactory.  Twice  had  he  complimented  Colonel 
Fanshawe  on  the  smartness  of  his  Pathan  regiment, 
and  since  the  regiment  was  one  of  the  two  institu- 
tions for  which  the  Colonel  lived  and  loved,  it  fol- 
lowed that  in  retrospect  his  habitual  content,  which 
at  all  times  was  of  a  very  sterhng  quality,  had  been 
lifted  to  the  levels  of  the  sublime.  And  anticipa- 
tion was  up  to  the  level  of  retrospect,  for  the  second 
of  these  institutions  which  engaged  all  his  energies 
and  affection  was  the  home  towards  which  he  was 
now  ambling  along  the  dusty  roads.  In  the  imper- 
turbable fashion  of  a  man  who  was  not  gifted  with 
much  imagination,  he  enjoyed  what  he  had  to  the 
almost  complete  exclusion  of  desiring  that  which  he 
had  not;  and  though,  if  a  genuine  wishing-cap  had 
been  put  ready  to  his  hand,  he  would  certainly  have 
had  a  request  or  two  to  make,  he  never,  in  the  ab- 
sence of  that  apocryphal  piece  of  headgear,  let  his 
mind  dwell  on  what  it  might  have  brought  him.  His 
wife,  the  second  of  that  name,  and  Elizabeth,  the 
daughter  of  the  first,  almost  completely  exiled  from 


THE  CALL  FROM  WITHOUT       9 

his  mind  all  desires  connected  with  his  home,  and 
were  sufficient  to  satisfy  the  emotional  needs  of  a 
love  which  was  not  the  less  luminous  because  it 
lacked  the  iridescence  of  romance.  It  burned  with  a 
steady  and  unwinking  flame,  without  rockets  and 
multi-coloured  stars,  and  was  eminently  suited  to 
light  a  man's  way,  so  that  he  should  go  without 
stumbling  tlirough  the  dusk  of  a  hazardous  world. 
For  the  sake  of  his  wife  or  of  EUzabeth  he  woukl 
have  given  his  life  unquestioningly  and  with  cheer- 
fulness, regretting  the  necessity  should  such  arise, 
but  he  would  have  done  so  without  any  of  the  ecstasy 
of  self-sacrifice  that  inspired  the  hymns  and  the 
beatitudes  on  the  lips  of  martyrs.  In  this  sunny  af- 
ternoon of  middle  age  which  had  come  to  him  there 
were  none  of  the  surprising  flames  that  glorify  the 
hour  of  dawn. 

The  road  from  the  parade  ground  through  canton- 
ments lay  level  and  dusty;  carob-trees,  dense  and 
varnished  of  foliage,  with  the  long  scimitar-shaped 
seed-pods  of  last  year  still  clinging  to  them,  met  and 
mingled  their  branches  together  overhead,  giving  a 
vault  of  shadow  from  a  midday  sun,  but  now,  as  the 
day  drew  near  to  its  close,  the  level  rays  poured  daz- 
zling between  the  tree-trunks,  turning  the  dust-rid- 
den air  into  a  mist  of  dusky  gold.  In  front,  seen 
through  the  arching  trees,  the  huddled  native  town 
rose  dim  and  amorphous  through  the  haze,  and  the 
acres  of  flowering  fruit-trees  were  a  flush  of  pink 
and  white  petals.  Southwards,  level  and  infinite  as 
the  sea,  the  Indian  plain  stretched  to  the  farthest 
horizons,  to  the  north  rose  the  hills  shoulder  over 
shoulder  till  they  culminated  in  fleecy  clouds,  among 
which,  scarcely  distinguishable,  there  glistened  the 
immemorial  whiteness  of  the  eternal  snows.  Here, 
dowTi  in  the  plain,  the  very  existence  of  those  frozen 
chffs  seemed  incredible,  for,  though  there  were  still 


10  ARUNDEL 

a  dozen  days  of  March  to  run,  it  seemed  as  if  the 
powers  of  the  air,  in  whose  control  is  the  great  oven 
of  India,  had  drawn  the  damper,  so  to  speak,  out  of 
that  cosmetic  furnace  during  the  last  week,  to  see  if 
the  heating  apparatus  was  all  in  order  for  the  ap- 
proaching hot  season,  and  Colonel  Fanshawe's  de- 
cision, against  which  there  had  been  the  growlings 
of  domestic  mutiny,  that  Elizabeth  should  start  for 
England  the  next  week,  crystallized  itself  into  the 
inexorable.  He  had  gone  so  far  in  the  fresh- 
ness of  the  morning  hours  to-day  as  to  promise 
her  to  reconsider  his  decision,  but  he  determined 
now  to  telegraph  for  her  passage  as  soon  as  he  got 
home. 

He  quickened  his  pace  a  little  as  he  approached 
his  gate,  at  the  lure  of  the  refreshing  hours  that  he 
had  promised  himself  in  his  garden  before  it  was 
necessary  to  dress  for  the  dinner  and  the  ball.  The 
hot  weather  had  already  scorched  to  a  cinder  the 
herbs  and  grasses  of  unwatered  places,  but  no  such 
tragedy  had  yet  overtaken  this  acre  of  green  cool- 
ness, with  its  ditches  and  channels  of  unlimited  irri- 
gation, where  the  unusual  heat  had  but  caused  the 
expansion,  in  a  burst  of  premature  luxuriance,  of  all 
the  flowers  that  should  have  decorated  April.  So 
brilliant  was  this  galaxy,  that  Colonel  Fanshawe 
could  hardly  regret  it,  though  it  meant  that  even 
now  the  days  of  the  garden  were  numbered,  and  that 
through  April  it  would  sleep  unblossoming,  till  the 
rains  of  May  stirred  it  into  that  brief  and  delirious 
frenzy  of  flowering  again  that  lasts  but  for  a  day  or 
two,  in  some  sultry  intermission  of  the  streaming 
skies  that  so  soon  open  their  flood-gates  again,  and 
cover  the  steaming  earth  with  disjected  petals.  But 
at  present,  though  April  would  pay  the  price  in  bar- 
renness and  withered  leaf,  summer  and  spring  were 
in  flower  together,  and  tulips  and  petunias,  mari- 


THE  CALL  FROM  WITHOUT     11 

golds  and  flame-flower,  morning-glory  and  bougain- 
villaea made  a  jubilance  of  many-coloured  carpet j 
while,  more  precious  than  all  to  the  Colonel's  soul, 
his  rose  hedges  of  crimson  ramblers,  Gloire  de  Dijon, 
and  the  briars  of  Peshawar  flared  with  innumerable 
fragrance.  A  few  days  before,  reluctantly,  and  with 
some  inkling  of  the  sentiments  of  a  murderer  who 
plans  a  crime,  he  had  abandoned,  marooned,  so  to 
speak,  his  tennis-court  to  die  of  drought,  but  the 
motive  of  his  deed  really  gave  a  verdict  of  nothing 
more  bloodthirsty  than  justifiable  grassicide,  for  the 
well  had  given  unmistakable  signs  that  it  was  not 
capable  of  keeping  the  whole  garden  alive.  Besides 
— and  here  for  a  moment  his  content  was  clouded 
again — Elizabeth  was  starting  for  England  next 
week,  and  the  tennis-court  became  an  investment 
that  paid  no  dividends  in  pleasure.  His  wife  never 
played;  she  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  coming 
downstairs  to  breakfast,  and  certainly  she  never  did 
that.    She  preferred  dancing  all  night. 

He  gave  his  horse  into  the  charge  of  his  orderly  at 
the  gate,  and,  a  little  stiff  and  bow-legged  from  so 
many  hours  in  the  saddle,  walked  up  the  short  drive 
that  lay  between  the  abandoned  tennis-court  and 
the  rose-garden  which  was  in  full  effervescence  of 
flower  and  fragrance.  Between  him  and  his  garden 
there  was  a  relation  as  intimate  almost  and  as  com- 
prehending as  that  between  two  personalities,  and 
had  some  one  with  the  gift  of  vivid  yet  easily  in- 
telligible eloquence  presented  his  feeling  towards  it, 
as  towards  some  beautiful  dumb  creature  with  a  liv- 
ing identity  of  its  own,  the  Colonel,  though  it  had 
never  struck  him  in  that  light  before,  would  have 
acknowledged  the  truth  of  the  imagery.  Just  now 
this  silent  sweet-smelhng  creature  had  begun  to 
make  a  stir  again  after  the  hot  windlessness  of  the 
day,  for  the  breeze  of  sunset,  invigorating  as  wine. 


12  ARUNDEL 

had  just  sprung  up,  and  wafted  the  evidence  of  its 
fragrant  life  in  sheets  and  webs  of  perfume  through 
the  sibilant  air,  while  as  evidence  of  Elizabeth  there 
came  through  the  open  windows  of  the  drawing- 
room  as  complicated  a  melee  of  sound  from  the  grand 
piano.  Devoted  and  affectionate  as  father  and 
daughter  were  to  each  other.  Colonel  Fanshawe  felt 
slightly  shy  of  Elizabeth  when  she  was  at  the  piano, 
for  Elizabeth  playing  was  Elizabeth  transformed. 
A  sort  of  fury  of  passion  and  intentness  possessed 
her;  she  evoked  from  the  strings  a  personality  as 
real  to  herself  as  was  his  garden  to  the  Colonel,  and 
all  this  intensity,  as  her  bewildered  father  occasion- 
ally said  to  himself,  was  born  from  the  compositions 
of  "some  German  Johnny."  In  that  rapt  adoration 
of  melody  Elizabeth's  mother  lived  again,  just  as  she 
seemed  to  glow  again  from  within  Elizabeth's  flushed 
face  and  sparkling  eyes  as  she  played.  So,  refraining 
from  interrupting  his  daughter  in  her  ecstatic  com- 
munings with  the  particular  German  Johnny  who 
engaged  her  attention  at  the  moment,  the  Colonel 
stepped  softly  round  the  corner,  and  ordered  himself 
a  cup  of  tea  in  his  bedroom,  with  which  he  re- 
freshed himself  as  he  adopted  a  garden-garb  for  his 
hot  and  close-fitting  uniform.  His  wife,  as  he  well 
knew,  would  be  resting  in  her  sitting-room  in  antici- 
pation of  the  fatigue  of  the  dinner  and  dance  which 
were  to  close  the  day.  Had  there  been  no  dance  or 
dinner  in  prospect,  she  would  be  doing  the  same 
thing  in  repair  of  previous  fatigue.  She  was  one  of 
those  women  who  are  capable  of  exertion  as  long  as 
that  over  which  they  exert  themselves  furnishes 
them  with  amusement ;  an  hour's  uncongenial  occu- 
pation tired  her  completely  out.  But  she  was  able 
to  do  anything  she  wanted  to,  and  such  a  perform- 
ance under  such  circumstances  seemed  but  to  in- 
vigorate her.    Her  husband  rejoiced  in  her  strength, 


THE  CALL  FROM  WITHOUT      13 

and  sympathized  with  her  weakness  with  equal  sin- 
cerity. 

He  was  no  lily-handed  gardener,  no  finger-tip 
lover,  who,  with  an  ivory-handled  secateur,  snips 
off  minute  dead  twigs,  and  selects  a  rosebud  for  his 
buttonhole,  but  went  about  his  business  with  the 
tender  ruthlessness  that  true  gardening  demands. 
Up  one  of  the  pillars  of  the  veranda  there  climbed 
together  a  great  ramping  mass  of  blue  convolvulus 
and  an  Ard's  pillar;  and  the  constricting  plant  was 
quietly  intent  on  stranghng  the  rose.  Now,  the  con- 
volvulus was  an  interloping  adventuress,  invading 
territories  that  were  not  her  own,  and  regretfully 
but  inexorably  Colonel  Fanshawe  committed  mur- 
der, snipping  off  the  sappy  stem  at  its  root,  and 
gently  disentangling  its  volutcd  tendrils.  As  he 
stripped  it  down  the  new  bull-pup  came  with  senti- 
mental sighs  out  of  the  house,  and  then,  becoming 
aware,  no  doubt  by  some  subtle  brain-wave,  that 
the  murdered  morning-glory  was  an  enemy,  flung 
himself  on  the  bestrewn  tendrils,  and  got  tightly  in- 
volved therein,  and  rolled  away  in  a  state  of  wild- 
eyed  and  bewildered  entanglement,  barking  hoarsely. 
Upon  which  an  observant  pigeon  on  the  roof  re- 
marked quite  clearly,  "Look  at  the  fool!  Look  at 
the  fool!"  Simultaneously,  with  a  loud  false  chord, 
the  wild  torrents  of  notes  within  ceased.  There  came 
a  sound  quite  exactly  as  if  somebody  had  banged 
down  the  lid  of  a  piano,  and  Elizabeth  came  out  on 
to  the  veranda.  She  was  very  tall,  as  tall  almost  as 
her  father,  and  the  long  lines  of  her  figure  showed 
slim  and  boylike  through  the  thin  blouse  and  blue 
linen  skirt  against  which  the  evening  breeze  pressed, 
moulding  them  to  the  limbs  within.  Her  hair  lay 
thick  and  low  above  her  small  face,  and  her  mouth, 
in  spite  of  the  heightened  colour  of  her  cheeks  and 
the  vividness  of  her  eyes,  drooped  a  little  as  if  fa- 


14  ARUNDEL 

tigued.  She  had  clasped  her  long-fingered  hands  be- 
hind her  head,  and  she  stood  there  a  moment  with- 
out seeing  her  father,  with  amusement  gathering  in 
her  eyes  as  she  observed  the  comedy  of  the  con- 
stricted puppy.  Then,  turning  her  head,  she  saw 
him. 

"Oh,  daddy!"  she  cried.  "Are  you  back?  And,  if 
so,  why  didn't  you  tell  me?  The  fact  is  that  you 
love  your  garden  better  than  your  only  daughter." 

Colonel  Fanshawe  had  two  nails  and  a  piece  of 
bass  string  in  his  mouth  destined  for  the  support  of 
the  disentangled  rose,  and  could  give  no  assurance 
beyond  an  incoherent  mumbling. 

"It  is  true,"  said  Elizabeth.  "And  what  makes 
me  feel  it  more  keenly  is  that  I  haven't  had  any  tea. 
Daddy,  do  leave  your  silly  plants  and  talk  to  me.  I 
haven't  spoken  to  a  soul  all  day.  IMamma  had  lunch 
in  her  room.  She  is  saving  up  for  this  evening,  and 
I  haven't  seen  anybody.  In  fact,  it  has  all  been 
rather  dismal.  I've  been  playing  the  piano,  and  I 
have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  I  shall  never  be 
able  to  play  at  all.  So  I  banged  down  the  lid,  and  I 
shall  never  open  it  again.  Do  get  down  from  that 
siUy  ladder  and  talk  to  me." 

Colonel  Fanshawe  was  methodical.  He  put  the 
two  nails  in  a  box  and  looped  up  the  spray  of  the 
rose  in  a  manner  which,  though  temporary,  would 
last  till  he  could  get  to  work  again. 

"That  sounds  rather  a  dismal  little  chronicle, 
Lizzy,"  he  said.  "So  if  you  feel  that  we  can't  talk 
while  I  go  on  gardening " 

"It  has  nothing  to  do  with  my  feelings,"  remarked 
Elizabeth;  "it  is  a  mere  question  of  external  im- 
possibilities.   Have  you  had  tea?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  come  and  see  me  have  mine.  I  shaU  eat 
quantities  and  quantities  of  tea,  and  not  have  any 


THE  CALL  FROM  WITHOUT      15 

dinner,  I  think.  One  can't  dine  alone,  and  you  and 
mamma  are  dining  out  at  the  Residency  and  going 
to  the  dance.  Daddy,  I  do  think  manmia  might  have 
let  me  go  to  the  ball;  I'm  eighteen,  and  if  one  isn't 
old  enough  to  go  to  a  dance  at  eighteen,  I  don't 
know  when  one  is." 

Elizabeth  paused  a  moment,  and  put  her  nose  in 
the  air. 

"I  don't  believe  mamma  will  want  me  to  come  out 
till  it  is  time  for  me  to  go  in  again,"  she  remarked. 

Colonel  Fanshawe  had  an  admirable  gift  of  silence. 
When  he  concluded  that  there  was  no  advantage  to 
be  gained  by  speech  he  could  refrain  from  it,  instead 
of,  like  the  most  part  of  mankind,  making  a  series  of 
injudicious  observations.  At  the  bottom  of  Eliza- 
beth's remark,  as  he  well  knew,  there  lay  stcwmg  a 
herb  of  rather  bitter  infusion,  which  he  had  no  de- 
sire to  stir  up.  But  Elizal)eth,  so  it  seemed,  felt  dis- 
posed to  do  the  stirring  herself. 

"Mamma  will  have  the  next  eight  months  all  to 
herself,"  she  said,  "and  she  can  dance  all  the  time. 
I  wish  to  state  quite  explicitly  that  I  think  she  might 
have  let  me  go  to  this  dance.  I  have  told  her  so, 
and  so  for  fear  she  should  tell  you,  I  do  it  myself." 

Elizabeth's  eye  wandered  on  to  the  path,  and  she 
broke  off  suddenly. 

"Oh,  my  beloved  Shah  Jehan,"  she  said,  "you 
will  certainly  strangle  yourself." 

This  appeared  highly  probable,  for  Shah  Jehan, 
the  young  and  imperial  bull-pup,  had  managed  to 
entangle  himself  so  strictly  in  the  yards  of  strong 
convolvulus  which  the  Colonel  had  cut  down  that  his 
eyes  were  starting  out  of  his  head,  and  only  the  most 
remote  sort  of  growl  could  escape  from  his  enveloped 
throat.  With  the  cake-knife,  which  she  snatched  up 
from  the  tea-table,  Elizabeth  ran  to  his  rescue. 

"It's  such  a  blessing,  daddy,"  she  said  as  she  re- 


16  ARUNDEL 

turned  to  him,  "that  you  and  I  are  so  very  much  one 
person,  because  we  can  say  anything  we  like  to  each 
other,  and  it  is  certain  that  the  other  one — how  tire- 
some language  is — the  one  I  mean,  who  listens  only 
really  listens  to  his  own  thoughts." 

"Ah,  my  dear  Elizabeth!"  said  he  suddenly,  lay- 
ing his  hand  on  her  arm.  If  Elizabeth's  mother 
lived  again  when  Elizabeth  played,  masked  behind 
her  daughter's  face,  she  appeared  with  no  guard  of 
flesh  in  between  when  Elizabeth  said  that. 

She  drew  his  hand  through  her  arm  and  strolled 
with  him  up  the  path. 

"It  is  so,  daddy,"  she  repeated;  "and  when  I  grum- 
ble to  you  it  is  only  as  if  I  grumbled  to  myself. 
Mamma  might  have  let  me  go  to  this  one  dance,  and 
she  doesn't,  because  she  wants  all  the  dancing  she 
can  get  herself,  and  naturally  doesn't  want  to  sit  in 
a  row  instead.  But  she'll  have  to  let  me  come  out 
next  autumn.  Oh,  by  the  way,  I  had  forgotten  the 
most  important  thing  of  all.  Have  you  settled  when 
I  am  to  go  to  England?" 

"Yes,  dear;  next  week.  I  have  telegraphed  for 
your  passage." 

"What  a  loathsome  and  disgusting  daddy,"  re- 
marked Elizabeth. 

"Possibly!  But  the  loathsome  daddy  isn't  going 
to  have  a  tired  and  white-faced  daughter,  if  he  can 
avoid  it.  I  shall  miss  you  more  than  you  can  possi- 
bly guess,  Lizzie." 

Elizabeth  gave  a  great  sigh. 

"I'm  so  glad!"  she  said.  "I  hope  you  will  be 
thoroughly  unhappy.  I  shan't  like  it,  either.  But 
mamma  won't  mind ;  that's  a  comfort." 

"Elizabeth,  I  wish " 

"Yes,  I  know,  dear;  so  do  I.  You  needn't  explain. 
I  wish  to  begin  to  eat  my  enormous  tea  also,  so  let 
us  sit  down.    I  don't  want  to  go  to  England;  and, 


THE  CALL  FROM  WITHOUT     17 

besides,  staying  with  Aunt  Julia  is  exactly  like  lying 
on  a  feather-bed,  with  all  the  luxuries  of  the  season 
on  a  table  close  to  you,  and  the  windows  tightly 
shut.  And  Edith  is  like  the  clean  lace-border  to  the 
pillow.    I  shall  be  so  comfortable." 

"Well,  that's  something,  Lizzie." 

"It  isn't;  it's  nothing  and  worse  than  nothing.  I 
don't  want  to  be  comfortable.  Nothing  that  is  really 
alive  is  ever  comfortable.  Aunt  Julia  and  Edith  and 
all  Heath  moor  generally  are  dead  and  buried.  I  am 
not  sure  they  do  not  stink " 

''My  dear " 

"As  it  says  in  the  Bible,"  said  Elizabeth,  "nobody 
there  is  ever  hungry  or  thirsty,  nobody  is  unhappy 
or  happy,  nobody  wants.  They  are  all  like  fishes  in 
an  aquarium;  you  can't  get  at  them  because  there 
is  a  sheet  of  strong  glass  in  between.  And  there 
aren't  any  tigers  or  burning  ghats  or  cobras  or 
cholera." 

"I  shouldn't  be  particularly  sorry  if  there  were 
fewer  of  those  blessings  here,"  remarked  her  father. 

"Perhaps;  but  they  help  to  make  things  real.  It 
is  so  easy  to  lose  all  sense  of  being  alive  if  you  are 
too  comfortable." 

Elizabeth  pointed  to  the  molten  west. 

"There,"  she  said,  "that's  a  sunset.  But  in  Eng- 
land for  the  most  part  they  wrap  it  up  in  nice  soft 
thick  clouds,  so  that  it  isn't  a  real  sunset.  And  dear 
Aunt  Julia  wraps  up  her  own  life  and  the  life  of 
every  one  about  her  in  the  same  way.  She  mops 
up  every  one's  vitality  as  with  a  sponge  by  thinking 
exclusively  about  not  getting  w^et  or  tired.  Oh,  how 
I  love  this  naked,  tired,  wicked,  mysterious  land, 
with  all  its  deadliness  and  its  dust  and  its  sunsets 
and  its  secrets,  which  I  shall  never  fathom  any  more 
than  I  can  fathom  Schumann!  I'm  a  savage,  you 
know.    I  love  wild,  unhappy  things " 


18  ARUNDEL 

Elizabeth  broke  off  suddenly. 

"I  don't  believe  even  you  understand  what  I  mean, 
daddy,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  my  dear,  I  do,"  said  he.  "I  could  tell  you 
exactly  what  you  mean.  But  have  your  say  first; 
you  have  not  nearly  done  yet.  I  will  tell  you  what 
you  mean  when  you  have  finished." 

Elizabeth  laughed. 

"That  will  be  a  good  thing,"  she  said,  "because, 
though  I  know  that  I  mean  something,  I  often  have 
not  the  least  idea  what  it  is.  Daddy,  I  wish  I  was  a 
boy  so  terribly  sometimes,  and  I  know  you  do  too. 
If  I  was  a  boy  I  would  get  up  now  and  kiss  you,  and 
walk  straight  off  into  the  direction  of  where  the 
moon  is  just  going  to  rise.  I  would  have  adventures 
— oh,  such  adventures!" 

"My  dear,  you  would  get  malaria,  and  come  home 
next  morning  with  a  violent  headache  and  ask  me 
for  some  quinine." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"You  are  wrong,"  she  said.  "I  wouldn't  come  back 
even  to  you  for  years,  not  until  I  had  learned  what 
it  all  means.  I  would  be  afraid  of  nothing;  I  would 
shrink  from  nothmg.  Perhaps  I  should  see  Malaria 
herself  in  the  jungle  down  there  by  the  Indus — a  tall, 
white-faced  woman,  with  golden  irises  to  her  eyes, 
and  I  would  talk  to  her  and  learn  about  her.  I 
would  go  into  the  temple  of  the  Brahmins  at  Benares 
and  listen  to  them  preaching  sedition.  I  would  sit  by 
the  corpse  as  it  burned  by  the  river  bank,  watching 
it,  oh,  so  quietly,  and  loving  it.  I  would  go  into  the 
opium  dens  and  learn  how  to  dream.  .  .  .  Learn  how 
to  dream!  I  wonder  if  that  is  what  I  want  to  do? 
I  think  it  must  be  that.  Sometimes  when  I  am  play- 
ing I  begin  to  dream,  and  just  as  I  am  getting  deep 
I  strike  a  false  chord  and  wake  myself  up,  or  mamma 


THE  CALL  FROM  WITHOUT      19 

comes  in  and  says  it  is  time  for  me  to  go  driving 
with  her." 

Ehzabeth  had  forgotten  about  the  enormous  tea 
she  had  intended  to  eat,  and  still  sat  upright  on  the 
edge  of  her  chair,  looking  out  over  the  gathering 
night.  Already  in  the  swiftly  darkening  dusk  the 
colours  were  withdrawn  from  the  flower-beds,  and 
only  the  heavy  odours  gave  token  of  their  blossom- 
ing. A  streak  of  dwindling  orange  lingered  in  the 
west;  above,  in  the  fathomless  blue,  stars  that  five 
minutes  before  had  been  but  minute  pinpricks  of 
luminance  were  grown  to  yellow  lamps  and  globes 
of  light.  Somewhere  in  the  lines  a  bugle  suddenly 
blared  out  its  message  to  the  stillness  and  was  silent 
again.  A  little  farther  off  a  tom-tom  beat  with  end- 
less iteration. 

Then  she  spoke  again,  more  rapidly. 

"It  is  only  by  dreaming  that  you  can  get  close  to 
the  world,"  she  said,  "and  hope  to  get  at  its  mean- 
ing. People  who  are  completely  awake  spend  aU 
their  time  in  doing  things  that  don't  matter.  You, 
for  instance,  daddy — you  and  your  inspections  and 
reviews.  What  does  it  all  come  to?  Would  this 
world  be  one  whit  the  worse  if  you  didn't  do  any 
of  it?  Yet  perhaps  I  am  wronging  you,  for,  anyhow, 
you  can  go  mooning  about  your  garden  for  hours  to- 
gether.   Let  me  see — where  had  I  got  to?" 

Colonel  Fanshawe  was  watching  Elizabeth  a  little 
uneasily.  This  strange  mood  of  hers  was  not  new 
to  him.  Half  a  dozen  times  before  he  had  known  her 
go  off  into  these  dim  rhapsodies,  and  they  somewhat 
disconcerted  him.  He  made  an  effort  to  bring  her 
back  into  realms  less  shadowy. 

"Where  had  you  got  to?"  he  asked.  "Upon  my 
word,  my  dear,  I  don't  think  you  had  got  anywhere 
particular.  Wouldn't  it  be  w^ell  to  begin  that  enor- 
mous tea  of  which  you  spoke?" 


20  ARUNDEL 

But  the  girl  was  fathoms  deep  in  this  queer  reverie 
of  speculation.    She  shook  her  head  at  him. 

"No;  you  don't  understand  yet,"  she  said.  "One 
has  to  dream  first  before  one  can  do  any  good  while 
one  is  awake.  Unless  you  call  baking  bread  and 
milking  cows  doing  good.  You  have  to  penetrate, 
penetrate.  It  is  a  kingdom  with  high  walls  round  it, 
and  I  expect  there  are  many  gates.  Perhaps  we  all 
have  our  own  gates;  perhaps  mine  is  a  gate  made  of 
music  and  yours  is  a  garden-gate.  Don't  misunder- 
stand me,  daddy,  or  think  I  am  talking  nonsense,  or 
think,  again,  that  what  I  mean  is  rehgion,  though  I 
dare  say  there  is  a  rehgion-gate  as  well.  All  I  know 
is  that  you  have  to  pass  dreaming  through  one  of  the 
gates  in  order  to  get  inside  the  kingdom.  And  when 
you  do  get  inside  you  find  that  it  isn't  so  much  that 
you  have  got  inside  the  kingdom  as  that  the  king- 
dom has  got  inside  you.  I  know  it  must  be  so.  Each 
of  us,  I  expect,  has  to  find  himself,  and  when  he  has 
found  himself.  ...  Oh,  God  knows!" 

She  broke  off,  and  instantly  poured  herself  out  a 
cup  of  tea. 

"I  am  so  hungry,"  she  said,  "and  I  had  quite  for- 
gotten. While  I  eat  and  drink,  daddy,  you  shall  keep 
your  promise  and  tell  me  what  I  mean.  You  said 
you  knew.  Or  have  I  been  talking  the  most  dread- 
ful rubbish?  But,  if  so,  I  am  rubbish  myself,  for 
what  I  have  said  is  Me." 

Colonel  Fanshawe  lit  a  cigarette. 

"No,  my  dear,  you  haven't  been  talking  rubbish," 
he  said.  "But  if  I  had  said  exactly  the  same  it  would 
have  been  rubbish."  He  meditated  a  moment  or 
two,  for,  though  he  felt  what  he  wanted  to  say,  it 
was  rather  difficult  for  him  to  find  the  words  for 
it.  At  the  same  time  also  there  was  that  in  what 
Elizabeth  had  said  which  strangely  moved  him;  it 
recalled  to  him  in  this  sunny  afternoon  of  life  some- 


THE  CALL  FROM  WITHOUT     21 

thin^  of  what  he  had  felt  when  he  brought  home, 
worshipping  and  loving,  Elizal^eth's  mother. 

"You  have  talked  admirable  sense,  dear,"  he  said, 
"for  the  very  simple  reason  that  you  are  eighteen. 
But  it  would  be  rubbish  in  my  mouth  at  forty-eight. 
You  feel  that  you  are  surrounded  by  delicious  mys- 
teries, into  the  heart  of  which  you  mean  to  penetrate. 
You  can  do  it  too,  and  I  so  earnestly  hope  you  will. 
While  you  are  yet  young  you  can  fall  in  love." 

Elizabeth  looked  at  him  in  disappointed  amaze- 
ment. 

"Is  that  all?"  she  asked. 
.    "I  assure  you  it  is  enough.    You  will  not  believe 
it  now " 

"But  fall  in  love?"  said  the  girl  again.  "With  a 
man?    Just  with  a  common  man?" 

"Yes,  just  with  a  connncMi  man,"  said  he.  "At 
least,  it  is  quite  certain  that  the  immense  majority  of 
mankind  will  call  him  a  common  man.  You  will  find 
that  he  makes  everything  beautiful." 

"But  I  know  how  beautiful  it  all  is  already,"  said 
she. 

"Yes,  and  it  all  puzzles  you.  You  don't  know  what 
it  means.  Well,  it  means  what  I  have  told  you — 
love." 

"Oh,  daddy,  is  that  all?"  said  the  girl  again. 

"In  a  way,  it  is.  I  mean  that  you  can't  go  beyond 
that.    But " 

Again  he  paused,  feeling  a  sudden  shyness,  even 
with  his  own  daughter,  in  speaking  of  anything  that 
concerned  him  so  intimately. 

"But  though  you  can't  go  beyond  iove,"  he  said, 
"you  can  go  into  it — penetrate,  penetrate,  as  you 
said  just  now,  yourself.  And  the  more  you  penetrate 
into  it  the  more  you  will  see  that  there  is  no  end  to 
it,  and  no  beginning  either.  And  then  you  will  call 
it  by  another  name." 


22  ARUNDEL 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  and  got  up  as  he  heard 
himself  somewhat  shrilly  summoned  from  within  the 
house. 

"It  seems  to  you  all  rather  dull,  I  am  afraid,  my 
dear,"  he  said,  *'but  it  isn't." 

Elizabeth  rose  also. 

"But  why  would  it  be  nonsense  for  you  to  speak 
of  it  as  I  did?"  she  asked.  "And  why  is  it  excellent 
sense  for  me  to  do  so?" 

"Because  when  you  are  forty-eight,  my  dear,  you 
will  have  had  to  learn  a  certain  sort  of  patience  and 
indulgence,  which  is  quite  out  of  place  wlien  you  are 
eighteen.  You  will  have  seen  that  the  people  who 
bake  bread  and  milk  cows  and  review  troops,  as  I  do, 
may  conceivably  be  doing — well,  doing  quite  nicely. 
But  you  are  quite  right  to  think  them  useless  old 
fogies  at  present!" 

Elizabeth  gave  him  a  quick  little  kiss. 

"You  are  a  darling!"  she  said.  "And  now  I  am 
going  to  vanish  swiftly  round  the  corner  of  the 
veranda.  Mamma  has  called  you  three  times  and 
you  hayen't  answered.  You  will  get  into  trouble, 
and  so  I  desert  you." 

Elizabeth's  amiable  scheme  was  executed  a  little 
too  late.  She  had  barely  got  half-way  down  the 
veranda  when  her  stepmother  rustled  out  of  the 
drawing-room,  already  dressed  for  her  party.  Her 
light,  slight  figure  was  still  like  a  girl's — hke  a  girl's, 
too,  was  her  evening  dress,  with  its  simple,  straight 
cut.  Nor  did  her  face — smooth,  delicate,  and  soft — 
belie  the  impression ;  but  her  forehead  and  the  outer 
corners  of  her  eyes  were  a  little  lined,  as  if  a  sleep- 
less night  had  momentarily  devitalized  her  youth. 
And  her  voice,  when  she  spoke,  was  old — old  and 
querulous. 

"Bob,  I  have  been  caUing  and  calling  you!"  she 
said.    "And  are  you  not  dressed  yet?    What  have 


THE  CALL  FROM  WITHOUT      23 

you  been  doing?  Elizabeth,  why  did  you  not  send 
your  father  to  dress?  We  shall  be  late,  as  usual,  and 
if  husband  and  wife  are  late  every  one  always  thinks 
it  is  the  wife's  fault.  Do  go  and  dress,  my  dear;  and 
Elizabeth,  my  darling,  will  you  come  and  talk  to  me 
while  I  wait  for  him?  I  am  so  (h'cadfuUy  tired!  I 
am  sure  I  do  not  know  how  I  shall  get  through  the 
evening.  What  a  pity  you  are  not  a  year  older,  and 
then  you  could  go  instead  of  me  anrj  let  me  pass 
a  quiet  evening  at  home!  Or  why  are  not  you 
and  I  going  to  have  a  dear  little  evening  alone 
together?" 

Elizabeth  retraced  her  steps. 
■    "I  am  quite  willing  to  go  instead  of  you,  mamma!" 
she  said. 

"Dearest,  I  know  how  unselfish  you  are.  But  you 
must  keep  your  sweet  girlish  freshness  another  year, 
and  not  tire  yourself  with  sitting  up  and  dancing  all 
night.  I  know  you  think  I  ouglit  to  have  let  you  go 
to-night,  but  you  must  allow  me  to  judge  of  that. 
Indeed,  my  dear,  I  feel  sure  you  do." 

This  little  speech  was  admirably  characteristic  of 
Mrs.  Fanshawe.  At  one  moment  she  would  be  find- 
ing fault  with  everybody,  at  the  next  she  would 
shower  tenderness  on  them.  It  mattered  nothing  to 
her  that  only  a  few  hours  ago  she  and  Elizabeth  had 
exchanged  peculiarly  clear-cut  and  opposed  views  on 
the  subject  of  this  dance;  she  was  quite  capable,  a 
few  hours  later,  of  assuming  that  they  were  quite  in 
accord  about  it.  She  never  had  the  smallest  qualms 
on  the  subject  of  her  own  sincerity,  as  is  the  habit 
of  thoroughly  insincere  people.  She  was  merely 
quite  determined  to  get  her  own  way  over  any  point 
in  which  she  had  a  preference,  and,  having  got  it, 
always  proceeded  to  make  herself  charming  in  a 
rather  helpless  and  clinging  kind  of  manner. 
Whether  her  husband  had  ever  gone  so  far  as  to  ad- 


24  ARUNDEL 

mit  even  to  himself  the  fact  of  her  insincerity  is 
doubtful.  Where  his  affection  was  engaged  he  lost 
all  power  of  criticism ;  where  he  loved  he  swallowed 
>.^hole. 

Mrs.  Fanshawe  gave  a  delicate  little  sigh — a  very 
perfect  and  appealing  little  sigh.  It  might  have  been 
supposed,  so  finished  was  it,  so  perfectly  phrased, 
that  she  had  practised  it  for  years  in  private.  Such 
was  not  the  case;  it  was  quite  natural  to  her  artificial 
self,  and  came  to  her  lips  as  spontaneously  as  song 
to  a  thrush. 

"We  must  see  a  great  deal  of  each  other  these  next 
days,  Elizabeth,"  she  said,  "before  you  go  off  to  all 
the  gaiety  and  dehghts  of  England.  How  J  long  to 
come  with  you,  for  I  am  sure  the  hot  weather  will 
utterly  knock  me  up ;  but  of  course  my  duty  is  with 
your  father.  I  should  not  dream  of  leaving  him 
while  I  went  home  to  enjoy  myself." 

"But  you  will  go  up  to  the  hills  next  month, 
mamma,  will  you  not?''  said  the  girl.  "And  stop 
there  till  the  autumn?  And  you  will  like  that,  won't 
you?" 

Mrs.  Fanshawe  gave  the  famous  little  sigh  again. 

"Like  it?  My  dear,  it  is  the  emptiest,  emptiest 
life,"  she  said;  "nothing  but  gossip  and  parties  all 
day  and  dancing  in  the  evening.  I  would  far  sooner 
stop  down  here  with  your  father,  and  only  go  away 
with  him  when  he  can  get  off.  But  of  course  he 
would  not  hear  of  that,  for  he  knows  very  well  that 
to  spend  the  summer  here  would  kill  me.  I  should 
not  dream  of  distressing  him  by  suggesting  it." 

Occasionally  Elizabeth's  patience  gave  way  before 
the  accumulation  of  such  insincerities.  In  general 
she  put  up  with  them  unrebelliously,  adapting  her- 
self to  the  experience  of  daily  life.  But  now  and 
then  she  rose  in  flagrant  and  unsuspected  mutiny. 


THE  CALL  FROM  WITHOUT     25 

She  did  so  on  this  occasion,  as  her  father  appeared 
again  dressed  for  this  evening's  functions. 

"Daddy,"  she  said,  "mamma  has  been  telling  me 
how  much  she  would  like  to  stop  here  with  you  in- 
stead of  going  up  to  the  hills.  Wouldn't  that  be 
nice  for  you?    It  sounds  a  charming  ])lan,  mamma." 

Mrs.  Fanshawe  did  not  sutler  a  moment's  discom- 
posure. She  took  Elizabeth's  chin  daintily  in  her 
fingers  and  gave  her  a  little  butterfly  kiss,  which 
could  not  disarrange  anybody's  complexion. 

"Darling,  what  an  idea!"  she  said.  "What  can  I 
have  been  saying  to  make  you  think  I  meant  that! 
Good-night,  my  little  sweet  one.  Go  to  bed  early, 
■  and  I  shall  come  to  my  room  like  a  mouse,  so  as  not 
to  disturb  you.  And,  in  turn,  dear,  would  you  mind 
not  beginning  to  practise  till,  shall  we  say,  eleven  to- 
morrow morning.  Begin  then  and  wake  me  up  with 
some  delicious  thing  like  what  you  were  playing  so 
very  early  this  mornhig.  Good-night,  sweet  Cin- 
derella!" 

Elizabeth's  rebellion  vanished  in  a  sense  of  amuse- 
ment. She  knew  that  she  might  as  well  expect  to 
cause  a  blush  of  embarrassment  on  the  face  of  the 
serene  moon,  by  repeating  to  a  mere  mortal  some 
unconsidered  remark  of  hers,  as  to  cause  her  step- 
mother a  moment's  loss  of  self-composure,  and  she 
smiled  at  the  butterfly  lips.  Even  when  Mrs.  Fan- 
shawe caused  her  the  greatest  irritation  she  could 
not  banish  altogether  the  instinct  of  protection  and 
tenderness  towards  that  remarkably  well-equipped 
little  lady.  She  was  really  about  as  capable  of 
taking  care  of  herself  as  an  iron-clad  battleship 
anchored  in  a  calm  sea,  with  guns  agape  and  tor- 
pedo-nets spread,  but  she  conveyed  so  subtle  an 
impression  of  dependence  and  timidity  that  even 
the  victims  of  her  most  trying  insincerities  relented 
towards  her  as  towards  a  pretty  child  eager  for  en- 


26  ARUNDEL 

joyment.  It  was  so  easy  to  strike  the  smile  off  her 
face. 

"Good-night,  little  mamma!"  said  Elizabeth. 
"Have  a  nice  time  and  dance  every  dance.  And  I 
shan't  disturb  you  to-morrow  by  my  practising,  as 
I  am  going  with  daddy  up  the  Khyber." 

"My  darling,  won't  that  be  rather  a  long  day  for 
you?  I  hoped,  perhaps,  we  should  spend  to-morrow 
quietly  together,  you  and  I." 

"Oh  no,  not  a  bit  long!"  said  Elizabeth,  again 
with  a  little  spark  of  irritation.  "I  shan't  have  spent 
all  night  dancing  like  you.  Good-night,  dear  daddy ! 
I  shall  be  ready  to  start  at  eight." 

Elizabeth  made  a  renewed  but  absent-minded  at- 
tack on  her  tea  when  the  others  had  gone,  counter- 
manded dinner,  and,  in  spite  of  her  lately  registered 
vow  never  to  touch  a  piano  again,  went  back  into 
the  drawing-room  and  opened  it.  A  modem  mu- 
sician, a  modern  and  ordinary  concert-frequenter, 
indeed,  would  have  pitied  the  rusticity  of  her  old- 
fashioned  taste,  for  not  only  were  the  works  but 
even  the  names  of  later  authors  unknown  to  her, 
and  at  the  present  moment  she  was  finding  Schu- 
mann's Noveletten  a  source  of  rapture  and  mystery 
to  her.  But,  however  old-fashioned  in  taste,  she  had 
the  root  of  the  matter  in  her  profound  love  of  mel- 
ody and  her  secret,  unswerving  sense  that  in  music 
was  contained  the  riddle  and  the  answer  of  the 
world.  She,  even  as  all  others  who  have  felt  the 
incommunicable  spell  that  lies  in  beauty  of  sound, 
knew  that  to  put  her  feeling  into  words,  or  even 
into  the  cramping  outlines  of  definite  thought,  was 
to  distort  and  parody  it,  for  the  essence  of  the  whole 
matter  was  that  its  spell  was  wordless.  Images,  of 
course,  thronged  in  spate  through  her  mind  as  she 
played  or  listened  to  music;  sometimes  it  was  a  fig- 
ure with  veiled  face  that  sang;  sometimes  it  was  a 


THE  CALL  FROM  WITHOUT     27 

band  of  militant  spirits  who  marched;  sometimes 
through  many-coloured  mists,  that  grew  thumer  and 
more  opalescent  as  a  climax  approached,  there  shone 
an  ineffable  light.  But  whatever  image  there  came 
to  her,  she  felt  its  inadequacy;  it  was  at  the  most 
what  a  photograph  is  compared  to  the  landscape 
which  it  records.  Music  was  music;  to  those  who 
understood,  that  would  be  a  more  satisfactory  state- 
ment than  any  array  of  images  which  it  suggested. 

To-night  as  she  played  she  found  running,  like  a 
strong  undertow  beneath  sunlit  and  placid  surfaces, 
certain  words  of  her  father.  Was  it,  indeed,  love 
that  inspired  this  beauty?  If  so,  how  was  it  that 
she  who  so  ceaselessly  worshipped  its  manifestation 
had  never  a  glimpse  of  the  spirit  that  inspired  it? 
.  .  .  He  had  said  more  than  that.  He  had  said — 
here  the  ripple  of  the  triplets  enthralled  and  en- 
chained her  for  a  moment — he  had  said  that  for 
her  the  love  of  a  common  man  would  interpret 
things  for  her. 

Elizabeth  was  playing  with  divided  mind.  Her 
fingers,  that  is  to  say,  already  schooled  to  the  notes, 
rendered  bar  after  bar  to  her  inner,  her  contem- 
plative self,  while  her  thoughts,  that  swarm  of  active 
honey-bees  that  bring  the  crude  treasure  to  the  hive, 
w^ere  busy  on  their  quests.  Love,  he  had  said,  would 
teach  her.  Had  love  taught  Schumann  this  moon- 
melody,  this  star-sown  heaven  of  song?  .  .  .  Had 
the  thought  of  Madame  Schumann  made  vocal  to 
him  the  magic  spell?  .  .  .  This  was  a  thing  to  smile 
at.  Daddy  did  not  understand,  of  course,  what  mu- 
sic was.  He  did  not  know  how  far  it  transcended 
in  reaUty  all  else  that  can  be  felt  or  thought. 

But,  to  do  him  justice,  that  was  not  the  sum,  the 
conclusion  of  his  words.  The  love  of  a  man,  he  had 
said,  would  teach  her  love,  and  the  dwelling  in  that 


28  ARUNDEL 

would  teach  her  that  love  had  neither  end  nor  be- 
ginning, and  she  would  call  it  by  another  name. 

Instantly  and  ludicrously  an  image  presented  it- 
self, the  image  of  the  regimental  church,  with  its 
pitch-pine  pews,  its  crude  windows,  its  encaustic 
tiles,  its  braying  harmonium.  Yet  all  these  unlovely 
objects  somehow  symbolized  to  her  father  all  and 
more  than  all  that  music  symbolized  to  her.  And  he 
was  not  imaginative ;  he  was  not  poetical ;  he  was  not 
artistic.  But  to  him,  here  was  the  one  eternally 
satisfying  answer  to  all  questions  that  could  ever 
be  asked. 

Ehzabeth's  fingers  had  come  to  the  end  of  the  first 
Novelette,  but  her  unconscious  mind,  everi  as  her 
thinking  mind,  heeded  them  no  longer.  The  whole 
of  her  mind,  conscious  and  unconscious  alike,  peered 
eagerly  into  this,  asking  itself  what  it  saw  there. 
And  it  saw  nothing  except  the  coloured  glass  and 
the  pitch-pine ;  heard  nothing  but  the  wheeze  of  the 
harmonium,  and  the  somewhat  bucolic  merriment  of 
a  chant  in  C  major. 

She  rose  from  the  piano  and  strolled  out  into  the 
yellow,  honey-coloured  moonlight — a  moonlight  not 
pale  and  cold,  but  partaking  of  the  ardour  and  the 
weariness  of  the  Indian  day.  She  recalled  all  that 
religion,  direct  religious  worship,  that  is  to  say,  and 
adoration  of  a  personal  and  inner  principle,  had 
meant  to  her  life,  and,  fully  honest  with  herself, 
she  saw  how  'intensely  little,  how  infinitesimally 
small  that  had  been.  There  were  her  childish 
prayers,  first  of  all,  sentences  which  she  could  never 
remember  having  learned,  for  they  came  out  of  her 
earliest  mists  of  childhood,  and  she  could  no  more 
recollect  being  taught  either  them  or  their  meaning 
than  she  could  recollect  being  taught  to  wash  her 
face.  They  were  both  on  exactly  the  same  plane; 
they  belonged  to  the  ritual  of  getting  up  and  going 


THE  CALL  FROM  WITHOUT      29 

to  bed.  There  was  washing  to  be  done;  there  were 
buttons  to  be  negotiated;  there  were  prayers  to  be 
said.  She  had  taken  it  on  trust  that  these  perform- 
ances had  to  be  gone  through ;  the  reason  for  them 
had  never  interested  her.  Then  a  further  piece  of 
observance  had  been  introduced  into  the  routine  of 
life,  and  with  her  best  frock  and  hat  she  had  stood 
and  sat  and  knelt,  sometimes  with  tedium,  some- 
times in  absorbed  attention  to  interesting  members 
of  the  congregation,  while  words  were  recited,  and 
h3rmns  sung.  It  was  rather  pleasant  to  recognize 
among  the  formulas  of  public  worship  her  own  bed- 
-side  ejaculations,  just  as  it  is  pleasant  to  recognize 
familiar  faces  in  a  crowd.  It  was  pleasant  also  to  be 
encouraged  to  join  her  small  voice  in  the  more  cheer- 
ful intervals  of  singing.  Church,  in  fact,  was  a  not 
unattractive  way  of  spending  an  hour  on  Sunday 
morning,  and  was  part  of  Sunday  in  precisely  the 
same  degree  and  with  exactly  the  same  meaningless- 
ness  as  her  prayers  were  part  of  the  ritual  of  dressing 
and  undressing.  Much  of  what  was  recited  there 
was  connected  with  the  Jews  who  had  astounding 
adventures  m  Egypt  and  in  the  wilderness. 

She  had  heard,  she  had  listened,  she  had  been 
taught,  prepared  for  confirmation,  and  taken  to  com- 
munion. She  supposed  that  she  believed  that  she 
was  a  Christian,  but  she  believed,  for  that  matter, 
in  Australia,  and,  for  that  matter,  she  knew  she  was 
English.  But  neither  her  belief  in  Australia  nor  in 
the  'truth  of  Christianity  was  coloured  with  emotion 
or  directed  her  actions.  She  would  not,  as  far  as 
she  was  aware,  behave  any  differently  if  Australia 
was  suddenly  swallowed  up  in  the  ocean,  or  if  the 
historical  facts  on  which  Christianity  was  based  were 
proved  to  be  fallacious.  In  no  way  did  either  fact 
enter  into  her  life.    She  was  not,  for  instance,  kind 


30  ARUNDEL 

and  honest  and  truthful  because  she  was  a  Chris- 
tian. 

But  she  knew  that  in  beauty  she  sought  a  mean- 
ing that  she  had  never  yet  found,  that  at  times  she 
agonized  to  discover,  and  catch  hold  of,  something 
on  which  to  rest,  from  which  to  derive  .  .  . 

She  had  wandered  down  the  length  of  the  dusky 
garden  alleys  between  the  roses  and  yellow  mimosas 
until  she  had  come  to  the  low  stone  wall  at  the 
bottom  of  her  father's  garden.  Here  the  canton- 
ments ended,  and  half  a  mile  of  dry  dusty  land  lay 
between  her  and  the  native  city,  which  rose  a  black 
blot  against  the  blue  of  the  night  sky.  A  few  low 
huts  of  cattle-tenders  were  scattered  about,>  and  the 
feather-like  plumes  of  tamarisk,  and  clear-cut  aloes 
broke  the  level  monotony.  One  such  aloe  close  at 
hand  flowered  a  few  days  before,  and  now  the  great 
stalk,  fifteen  feet  high,  with  its  cluster  of  blossoms 
at  the  end  of  the  horizontal  twigs,  stood  like  a  tele- 
graph pole  across  the  face  of  the  moon,  and  Eliza- 
beth wondered  at  this  prodigious  force  that  from 
the  empty  air  and  barren  soil  raised  in  so  few  days 
this  triumphant  engine  and  distributor  of  life.  For 
years  this  plant  had  silently  and  slowly  grown,  a 
barren  growth  in  a  barren  land;  then  suddenly  it 
had  been  caught  in  the  whirlpool  of  production,  of 
fruition,  and  with  a  stupendous  output,  which  should 
cause  its  own  exhausted  death,  had  erected  that  bea- 
con flame  with  that  torch  of  transmitted  life.  Had 
it  felt  a  death-bed  revelation,  as  it  were?  Was  it 
satisfied  to  bear  witness  to  life  and  to  die?  What 
did  it  mean?    What  did  it  all  mean? 

A  small  trodden  track  lay  just  below  the  three- 
foot  wall  on  which  she  leaned,  and  at  the  moment 
she  heard  something  stir  there  close  to  her.  Looking 
over,  she  saw  that  an  old  man  was  squatting  there. 
He  had  a  long  white  beard  that  fell  nearly  to  his 


THE  CALL  FROINI  WITHOUT     31 

waist;  he  was  naked  but  for  the  loin-cloth  about 
his  middle,  and  by  his  side  lay  a  tall  crutch  and  an 
empty  begging-bowl  of  wood.  But  round  his  shoul- 
ders, which  glistened  in  the  moonhglit,  she  saw  that 
there  was  bound  the  three-fold  cord  that  marks  a 
Brahmin. 

Apparently  he  heard  her  movement  as  she  leaned 
over,  and  turned  his  head  towards  her.  Deadly 
weakness  and  exhaustion  were  prhited  there,  but 
more  clearly  than  that  there  shone  from  it  a  quiet 
indwelling  joy,  an  expression  of  rapture,  of  ecstasy. 

Elizabeth  spoke  to  him  in  the  vernacular. 

"You  want  food?"  she  said. 
•     "I  want  nothing,  lady,"  said  he. 

Elizabeth  suddenly  felt  that  there  was  something 
here  for  her;  that  this  aged,  quiet  face,  so  full  of  joy, 
so  shadowed  by  weakness,  had  a  message.  The  feel- 
ing was  instinctive  and  unaccountable. 

"I  will  get  you  food  in  a  moment,"  she  said. 

"I  do  not  want  food,"  said  he. 

Elizabeth  put  her  hand  on  the  top  of  the  low  wall 
and  easily  vaulted  over. 

"But  you  are  tired  and  hungry,"  she  said,  "and 
you  must  have  travelled  far  from  your  native  place 
to  come  up  here.    Where  are  you  from?" 

"From  Benares.  I  have  searched  all  my  life,  but 
to-day  my  search  is  over." 

A  sudden  wave  of  uncontrollable  emotion  seized 
the  girl. 

"Oh,  tell  me  what  you  have  searched  for?"  she 
said.    "What  is  it?" 

"It  is  the  Life  itself,"  he  said.  "And  I  have 
found." 

He  fell  back,  and  lay  quite  still,  with  open  eyes 
and  smiling  mouth.    Even  as  he  said  he  had  found. 


CHAPTER   II 

THE  RIDDLE  GROWS 

In  these  days  of  the  diffusion  of  the  products  of 
trade  and  the  benefits  doubtful  and  otherwise  of 
civilization,  when  the  Amir  of  Afghanistan  has  a 
piano,  and  the  Grand  Llama  of  Thibet  a- bicycle,  it 
must  not  shock  the  reader  to  know  that  Elizabeth 
travelled  up  the  Khyber  Pass  in  the  company  of  her 
father  and  the  Commander-in-Chief  in  a  motor-car. 
That  military  hero  who  had  danced  three-quarters 
of  the  night  with  the  young  ladies  of  Peshawar,  not 
singling  out  any  one  for  his  favours,  but  cutting  up 
his  heart  into  a  large  number  of  small  pieces,  and 
giving  one  to  each,  was  delighted  to  find  there  was 
yet  another  charming  maiden  whom  he  had  not  yet 
seen,  and,  rolling  his  jolly  sides  with  laughter,  sup- 
posed that  there  had  been  a  conspiracy  among  the 
beauties  of  Peshawar  to  keep  the  fairest  of  them  all 
out  of  the  ballroom.  Gallantry  and  excessive  ani- 
mal spirits  are  apt  to  be  rather  disgusting  in  elderly 
and  obese  persons,  but  the  vitality  of  this  amiable 
old  warrior  was  so  genuine  in  its  boyishness  that  the 
primmest  of  the  sex  that  he  so  indiscriminately 
adored  were  disarmed  by  his  monstrous  flatteries. 
But  when  our  party  had  passed  the  fort  of  Jamrud 
that  guards  the  Indian  end  of  the  historic  road,  and 
entered  on  the  defile  which  from  immemorial  days 
has  been  the  coveted  key  that  has  locked  and  un- 
locked the  treasure  of  India,  each  yard  of  which  has 

32 


THE  RIDDLE  GROWS  33 

been  bought  and  paid  for  in  blood,  Sir  Henry's  gal- 
lant loquacity  was  abated,  and  the  magic  of  the 
most  historic  highway  in  the  world  cast  its  spell  on 
him. 

Elizabeth  had  hardly  slept  last  night,  but  that 
which  had  kept  her  still  and  wakeful  during  the  dark 
hours  had  been  so  strong  a  stimulus  to  her  mind, 
that  morning  saw  no  haggard  cheeks  and  drooping 
eyelids,  but  an  alert  and  fresh-coloured  face.  That 
strange  sudden  death  of  the  white-haired  traveller 
had  not  in  the  least  shocked  or  terrified  her,  for  her 
whole  soul  was  full  of  the  discovery  of  how  wonder- 
ful and  beautiful  a  thing  is  death  to  one  who  has 
lived,  and  who,  like  this  aged  Brahmin,  had  looked 
upon  it  not  as  a  cold  hand  that  locks  the  gates  of 
the  sepulchre,  but  as  a  friend  who  opens  a  door  into 
a  fuller  life,  an  ampler  perception.  Hitherto  she 
had  never  looked  on  death,  and  in  so  far  as  she 
thought  of  it  at  all,  viewed  it  as  a  remote  and  cruel 
contingency,  horrible  to  contemplate  and  best  for- 
gotten. She  had  no  idea  that  it  could  be  like  that, 
that  calm  moment  of  healing  that  had  not  distorted 
the  peace  and  the  joy  on  the  old  man's  face,  but  had 
merely  wiped  off,  as  if  it  had  been  some  travel-stain, 
some  superficial  blur,  the  weariness  and  the  age  that 
had  a  moment  before  overlaid  it.  She  found,  too, 
that  she  had  no  horror  at  the  touch  of  the  lifeless 
shell,  and  had  helped  the  servants  to  move  the  body. 
But  before  she  had  called  for  assistance  she  had  sat 
a  minute  or  two  alone  with  the  body,  the  face  of 
which  was  calmer  and  more  serene  than  the  flooding 
moonlight  that  illuminated  it,  and  had  kissed,  in  a 
sort  of  inexplicable  reverence  and  tenderness,  the 
lined  forehead. 

And  all  night  long  that  face  had  remained  with 
her.  If  she  shut  her  eyes  it  hovered  before  her  in 
the  darkness  of  her  closed  lids,  answering  the  ques- 


34  ARUNDEL 

tion  she  did  not  know  how  to  frame.  Triumph,  con- 
viction, certainty,  attainment  was  the  response.  She 
could  not  doubt  that  this  death  by  the  wayside  of 
but  one  of  the  teeming  milHons,  and  that  one  so 
aged,  so  stricken,  was  a  royal  entry  from  an  ante- 
chamber into  a  throne-room.  She  had  seen  a  soul 
attain;  the  dead  smiling  face  no  less  than  the  last 
words  which  the  triumphant  lips  had  spoken  assured 
her  of  it.  All  his  life  he  had  sought,  knowing  what 
he  sought;  as  yet  she  but  felt  the  conviction  that 
there  was  something  to  seek. 

For  a  while,  however,  all  this  sank  out  of  sight 
in  her  mind,  as  if  she  had  dropped  treasure  into  a 
well.  It  was  there  safe,  and  when  she  dredged  for 
it  she  would  find  it  again,  but  for  the  present,  as 
they  wound  upwards  on  the  narrow  road,  the  magic 
of  the  way  enchained  her.  Barer  and  more  precipi- 
tous rose  the  barren  hill-sides  of  neutral  native  ter- 
ritory, between  which  wound  the  narrow  riband  of 
the  English  road.  All  the  way  along  it,  within  com- 
municable distance  from  each  other,  the  sentries  of 
the  Kliyber  Rifles  guarded  the  pass,  to  give  safe 
conduct  to  the  caravan  that  came  with  carpets  and 
dried  fruits  and  incense  from  the  unknown  country 
beyond,  and  to  that  which,  with  the  products  of 
civilization,  oil  and  sheet  iron  and  calico,  passed 
from  the  plain  into  the  mountains  of  Afghanistan. 
They  overtook  and  passed  the  caravan  that  had 
rested  last  night  at  the  entrance  to  the  pass,  going 
westwards;  six  hundred  camels,  bearded  and  with 
soft,  padding  steps,  carried  the  amorphous  mass  of 
merchandise.  Some  were  gentle  beasts,  mild-eyed 
and  depressed,  others  were  muzzled  with  rope  and 
foamed  at  the  mouth.  Myriad  were  the  types  of 
those  who  drove  them;  there  were  pale-faced  boys 
with  flaxen  hair;  there  were  hawk-nosed  eager 
Pathans  of  the  type  so  familiar  to  Elizabeth  in  the 


THE  RIDDLE  GROWS  35 

parades  of  her  father's  regiment,  snub-nosed  Mon- 
gohans,  Thibetans,  with  their  high  cheek-bones  and 
wide-lipped  mouths,  and  of  them  all  there  was  not 
one  in  whose  face  this  morning  Elizabeth  did  not  see 
signs  of  some  secret  quest,  some  unconjecturable 
search.  One  perhaps  desired  money,  one  an  end  to 
this  mounting  road;  one  was  hungry,  another 
thirsty,  but  behind  all  these  superficial  needs  she 
read  into  each  face  a  desire,  a  quest.  Often,  as  if  in 
answer  to  her  eager  glance,  she  received  a  question- 
ing stare,  as  if  the  gazer  sought  from  her  some  sig- 
nal that  he  was  waiting  for.  All  nature  that  morn- 
ing had  a  question  on  its  lips  for  Elizabeth,  and  an 
answer  if  she  could  but  interpret  it.  The  grey 
climbing  hill-sides  already  aquiver  in  the  hot  sun 
seemed  ready  to  tell  her  why  they  stood  there  broad- 
flanked  and  menacing.  The  brook  that  came  cool 
and  bubbling  from  below  a  rock  by  the  wayside, 
fringing  its  course  with  cresses  and  feathery  grass, 
had  learned  in  the  darkness  of  the  earth,  in  the  sub- 
terrestrial  caves  from  which  it  sprang,  the  reason  of 
its  going.  Scattered  by  the  roadside  here  and  there 
were  Afghan  villages,  and  at  the  mouths  of  exca- 
vated dwellings  in  the  hill-side  stood  the  wild-eyed 
native  folk  who  were  born  and  lived  and  loved  and 
fought  and  murdered,  maybe,  all  in  obedience  to 
some  law  of  being  that  caused  the  aloe  to  shoot  up 
in  erect  strong  stem  and  blossom,  and  that  lit  the 
fires  of  victory  in  the  eyes  of  the  dying  Brahmin. 
All  seemed  ready  to  tell  her  the  answer  could  she 
but  frame  her  question. 

Like  an  obsession  this  sense  of  revelation  ready 
to  show  itself  to  her,  could  she  but  put  herself  on 
the  plane  of  thought  where  it  lay,  besieged  her  all 
day,  and  as  they  returned  to  the  caravanserai  at  the 
foot  of  the  pass  as  the  sun,  declining  behind  the 
western  hills,  turned  them  for  a  moment  into  glow- 


36  ARUNDEL 

ing  amber,  it  seemed  to  elude  her  but  by  a  hair's- 
breadth.  There  all  was  ready  for  the  reception  of 
the  caravan  that  had  marched  through  the  pass  into 
India  that  day ;  the  sellers  of  bread  were  pulling  out 
of  their  circular  ovens  excavated  in  the  gi'ound  the 
flat  cakes  of  unleavened  bread,  the  brass  samovars 
hissed  at  the  booths  of  the  tea-sellers,  and  cauldrons 
of  hot  soup  boiled  and  bubbled.  Already  the  van  of 
the  wayfarers  was  entering  the  guarded  gates  that 
were  pierced  in  the  mud  walls,  and  the  camels,  weary 
with  the  long  stage,  bent  their  unwieldy  joints  and 
lay  down  for  their  drivers  to  strip  off  their  load. 
Some  were  too  tired  to  eat,  and,  resting  their  queei: 
prehistoric  heads  on  their  bended  forelegs,  closed 
their  long-lashed  eyes  and  slept.  Others,  hungry 
and  restless,  foamed  and  lathered  and  snapped 
greedily  at  the  mounds  of  dricrl  fodder  that  their 
drivers  placed  before  them.  Tired  men  got  their 
bowls  of  soup  or  tea  from  the  stalls,  and,  leaning 
against  the  sides  of  their  beasts,  ate  their  supper, 
and  wrapping  their  heads  in  their  dusty  gay-col- 
oured shawls,  slept  by  their  sleeping  animals. 
Others,  inclined  for  a  chat,  collected  round  the  shops 
of  the  provision-sellers  against  the  wall  of  the  serai, 
and  smoked  and  talked  when  their  supper  was  done ; 
others,  three  or  four  clubbing  together,  lit  fires  of 
the  brushwood  they  had  gathered  during  the  day, 
and  cooked  their  own  food  at  cheaper  rate  than  ob- 
tained in  the  stores.  Ponies  nickered  and  twitched 
at  their  heel-ropes,  the  sharp,  pungent  smell  of  the 
wood  fires  and  the  wreaths  of  aromatic  smoke  drifted 
slowly  along  the  sluggish  currents  of  the  almost 
windless  air,  and  gradually  the  empty  space  of  the 
serai  became  a  mosaic  of  sleepmg  men  and  beasts. 
The  hills  that  the  sunset  had  turned  into  molten 
tawny  gold  grew  dark  again  with  the  gathering 


THE  RIDDLE  GROWS  37 

night,  and  in  the  depth  of  the  velvet  vault  above  the 
wheeling  stars  grew  large. 

And  behind  all  the  various  forms  of  life,  behind 
the  molten  hills,  behind  the  sky,  behind  the  limbs  of 
the  bearded  camels,  behind  the  chatter  and  smoke 
of  the  provision  booths,  there  lurked,  so  it  seemed 
to  Elizabeth,  one  impulse,  one  energy  common  to  all. 
In  her  head  lay  some  remembered  melody  of  Schu- 
mann, that  seemed  to  beat  to  the  same  indwelling 
rhythms  to  which  the  stars  pulsated. 

Her  father  was  standing  alone  beside  her;  a  little 
way  ofif  the  genial  Commander-in-Chief  was  tasting 
the  soup  that  bubbled  in  the  tin-plated  cauldrons, 
pronouncing  it  excellent,  and  bidding  his  aide-de- 
camp, a  slim  young,  weary  Englishman,  translate 
his  verdict  of  it  to  the  gratified  booth-keeper.  Some 
word  of  the  identity  of  this  great  boisterous  hedonist 
had  been  passed  about  the  serai,  but  the  tired 
drovers  of  the  caravan  paid  little  heed.  And  yet, 
here  incarnate,  was  the  figure-head  of  the  English 
power  that  guaranteed  their  safe  journey  through 
the  turbulent  lands  of  the  frontier,  and  that  would 
avenge  with  wicked  little  spitting  guns  and  a  troop 
of  khaki-clad  soldiers  any  raid  that  the  ungoverned 
tribe  might  make.  But  Sir  Henry,  in  spite  of  this, 
roused  but  little  attention;  the  tired  drovers  slept; 
those  who  were  more  alert  were  but  employed  with 
jokes  and  snatches  of  song  round  the  samovars  and 
soup-cauldrons.  The  hills  and  the  stars  attended  as 
little;  everything  and  everybody  was  intent  on  his 
own  inward  calls,  just  as  last  night  the  Brahmin 
who  lay  by  the  wayside  had  no  need  of  food,  and 
but  thought  of  the  finding  of  that  for  which  all  his 
years  had  searched. 

And  then  Elizabeth's  questing  soul  suddenly  gave 
up  the  pursuit  of  a  hidden  cause,  and  felt  content 


38  ARUNDEL 

with  the  obvious  explanation.  She  took  her  father's 
arm. 

"Oh,  daddy,  I've  had  such  a  lovely  day!"  she  said. 
"What  heaps  of  different  things  there  are  in  the 
world,  and  what  heaps  of  different  businesses.  And 
it  all  makes  such  a  jumbled  incoherent  whole!  In 
half  an  hour  we  shall  be  back  home  again,  and  it 
will  be  time  to  dress,  and  mamma  will  tell  us  all  she 
has  done  to-day.  After  dinner  I  will  play  the  piano 
to  you  till  you  snore,  and  as  soon  as  you  snore  I 
shall  wake  you  up  again  and  make  you  write  to  Aunt 
Julie  to  say  when  I  shall  arrive  at  Heathmoor." 

He  pressed  her  hand  as  it  lay  in  the  crook  of  his 
arm. 

"It  is  a  less  tragic  view  than  that  of  last  night," 
he  said. 

"I  know.  At  this  moment  I  don't  mind  the  least 
about  going  to  England.  I'm — I'm  going  to  take 
things  as  they  come." 

Elizabeth  paused  a  moment,  as  with  the  vividness 
of  ocular  hallucination  the  Brahmin's  face  once  more 
swam  before  her  eyes. 

"But  that  doesn't  mean  I  am  not  going  to  be 
serious,"  she  said.  "I  want  'richly  to  enjoy.'  Doesn't 
that  come  in  the  Bible  somewhere?  I  expect  there 
are  many  routes  that  arrive  at  the  same  place." 

To  anybody  unacquainted  with  the  sum  of  Eliza- 
beth's musings  that  day,  this  was  necessarily  a 
cryptic  speech.    It  grew  more  cryptic  yet. 

"Perhaps  drink  leads  the  drunkard  there,"  she 
said,  "and  music  the  musician.  Doesn't  one  de- 
velop, daddy,  through  one's  passions,  and  not 
through  one's  renunciations?  I  can't  see  how  starv- 
ing your  desires  can  possibly  help  one." 

"My  dear,  there  are  desires  and  desires,"  he  said. 

"And  where  do  they  all  come  from?  Surely  from 
the  search." 


THE  RIDDLE  GROWS  39 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  and  at  that  moment  any- 
thing short  of  enthusiastic  acceptance  of  her  illumi- 
nation was  a  coldness,  a  hand  of  ice  to  Elizabeth. 

"Daddy,  you  don't  understand,"  she  said.  "As 
lonp;  as  we  want,  it  doesn't  much  matter  what  we 
want.    Isn't  it  half  the  battle  to  be  eager?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Again  I  should  talk  nonsense  if  I  agreed  with 
you,"  he  said.  "Eagerness  is  a  sword,  my  dear;  but 
it  is  not  armour." 

"I  don't  want  armour,"  she  said  quickly.  "I  am 
not  afraid  of  being  hurt." 

"Ah,  don't  get  hurt,  my  darling!"  he  said. 

"Not  I.  And  if  I  do  get  hurt,  daddy,  I  shall 
come  cr>'ing  to  you,  and  you  will  have  to  comfort 
me.  Oh,  oh — look  at  all  those  tired  men,  with  no 
beds  to  lie  on,  and  no  pillows  antl  no  tooth  powder 
or  sponges!  Don't  you  envy  them?  They  will  wake 
up  in  the  morning,  and  find  themselves  there,  and, 
after  all,  nothing  else  can  matter.    I  don't  want  to 

be  bothered  witli  possessions.     I  want  to  be " 

Elizabeth  suddenly  broke  off,  interrupting  her 
speech  and  thought  alike. 

"Daddy,  that  darling  Sir  Henry  has  had  soup, 
and  now  he  is  eating  unleavened  cakes,  and  a  pe- 
culiarly murderous-looking  Pathan  is  tempting  him 
with  a  pomegranate.  Do  stop  him ;  he  is  dining  with 
us  in  an  hour's  time,  and  mamma  will  be  so  vexed 
if  he  doesn't  eat  the  most  enormous  dinner." 

Colonel  Fanshawe,  with  Elizabeth  still  on  his  arm, 
stepped  over  a  couple  of  sleeping  prostrate  forms. 

"Yes,  we  will  go  to  him,"  he  said,  "and  you  shall 
tell  me  more  about  the  smiple  life  afterwards.  It  is 
getting  late." 

Sir  Henry  had  just  cracked  a  pomegranate  in  his 
enormous  beefy  hands. 

"God  bless  me!"  he  was  saying.    "I  never  saw 


40  ARUNDEL 

anything  look  so  good.  Fanshawe,  be  kind  enough 
to  tell  this  man  in  your  best  Pushtoo,  that  there's 
a  fortune  in  pomegranates.  Why,  it's  quite  deli- 
cious ;  never  tasted  such  a  fine  fruit." 

Colonel  Fanshawe  made  some  amiable  equivalent 
of  all  this  in  Pushtoo,  and  spoke  to  Sir  Henry  again. 

"He  says  that  his  trees  will  bear  in  greater  abund- 
ance than  ever  now,  sir.  But  it  is  rather  late.  I 
think  we  ought  to  be  getting  home.  You  won't 
have  more  than  time  to  eat  your  dinner  in  comfort 
before  the  train " 

Sir  Henry  rejected  a  mass  of  seeds. 

"Yes,  yes;  we'll  go,"  he  said.  "Why,  here's  my 
Miss  Elizabeth  come  to  insist.  I  always, obey  the 
ladies.  Colonel;  you  obey  the  ladies  always,  and 
you'll  have  a  confoundedly  pleasant  time.  Now, 
Miss  Elizabeth,  quick  march,  is  it?" 

A  sleepless  day  following  on  a  dancing  night,  had 
produced  in  Mrs.  Fanshawe  that  uncertainty  of  tem- 
per wliich,  when  it  exhibits  itself  in  children,  is 
called  fractiousness.  The  Commander-in-Chief,  who 
dined  with  them  en  jamiUc,  had  been  obliged  to 
leave  in  order  to  catch  his  train  before  dinner  was 
over,  and  in  consequence  the  very  expensive  straw- 
berries which  she  had  designed  to  form  an  excep- 
tional dessert  were  eaten  by  herself  and  Elizabeth, 
while  the  Colonel  went  to  the  station  to  speed  his 
parting  chief.  The  chief  also  during  dinner  had 
paid,  according  to  her  estimate  of  what  was  proper, 
insufficient  attention  to  his  hostess,  and  more  than 
sufficient  to  Elizabeth,  on  whom  he  rained  showers 
of  robust  gallantries.  In  addition,  some  vague  story 
of  a  dead  man  found  in  the  garden  had  agitated  her, 
while  not  a  single  soul  from  the  rest  of  the  station 
had  called  to  tell  her  how  complete  was  the  eclipse 
that  all  other  women  suffered  at  the  ball  last  night 


THE  RIDDLE  GROWS  41 

in  consequence  of  her  effulgence.  This  was  enough 
to  start  a  promising  crop  of  grievances  and  gloomy- 
forebodings  in  JMrs.  Fanshawe's  mind,  which  she 
served  up,  so  to  speak,  young,  succulent,  and  tender 
like  mustard  and  cress.  The  crop  was  of  extremely 
varied  growth — a  perfect  maccdoine  of  mixed  and 
bitter  vegetables,  among  which  her  habitual  help- 
lessness and  childlike  manner  had  been  completely 
volatilized. 

"I  think  it  is  no  wonder,"  she  said,  "that  the  mili- 
tary future  of  Lulia  gives  politicians  grave  anxiety 
at  home,  wlicn  tlicre  is  such  a  doddering  old  goose  at 
the  head  of  affairs." 

"Oh,  mamma,  it's  rather  a  telling  sort  of  dodder- 
ing!" said  Elizabeth.  "They  gave  him  a  tremendous 
reception  at  Jamrud." 

"And  laughed  at  him  behind  his  back,  I  know," 
said  JMrs.  Fanshawe,  with  decision.  "And  his  con- 
duct at  dinner,  too,  with  his  absurd  jokes.  I  had 
hoped,  Elizabeth,  that  your  good  sense  would  have 
enabled  you  to  see  through  them,  and  for  my  part, 
the  most  charitable  explanation  I  can  think  of  is 
that  he  had  had  too  much  wine,  which  I  am  sure 
I  hope  he  will  sleep  off  before  he  makes  another 
laughing-stock  of  himself  at  Lahore.  Stuffing  him- 
self with  soup  and  pomegranates,  too,  like  a  school- 
boy at  a  confectioner's!" 

Elizabeth  forebore  to  suggest  that  a  school  con- 
fectioner who  sold  soup  and  pomegranates  would  be 
a  unique  species  of  tradesman,  and  proceeded  to 
eat  strawberries  one  by  one  from  the  dish.  Her 
stepmother  did  not  often  spout  with  vinegar,  when 
she  did  the  wisest  thing  was  not  to  attempt  to 
staunch  the  flow,  but  merely  wait  till  it  ran  dry. 
But  it  appeared  that  her  silence  acted  as  spur  suffi- 
cient. 

"And  as  you  have  nothing  to  tell  me  about  the 


42  ARUNDEL 

pleasures  of  your  expedition,"  observed  Mrs.  Fan- 
shawe,  "I  must  be  content  with  picturing  it  to  ray- 
self,  as,  indeed,  I  have  been  doing  all  day,  thinking 
that  now  you  had  got  to  Landi  Kotal,  and  now  to 
the  other  place,  the  name  of  which  I  forget." 

"We  started  at  eight,"  began  Elizabeth. 

"I  am  quite  aware  of  that,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Fan- 
shawe.  "I  had  lain  awake  till  then  after  the  ball, 
and  was  just  beginning  to  think  I  should  get  to 
sleep,  when  I  heard  you  laughing  and  calling  so  mer- 
rily. I  only  thought,  'Now  my  dear  ones  are  start- 
ing on  their  expedition/  nothing  more  at  all.  Ex- 
cept to  look  out  of  my  window,  though  the  light  hurt 
my  eyes,  to  see  if  you  were  likely  to  have  a  fine  day. 
But,  since  you  have  nothing  to  tell  me -" 

"Indeed,  mamma,  we  all  talked  about  our  day  at 
dinner,"  said  Elizabeth.  "I  should  have  thought 
you  had  heard  enough  of  it." 

Mrs.  Fanshawe  closed  her  eyes  until  Elizabeth 
ceased  speaking,  and  then  went  on  exactly  where  she 
had  left  off. 

"What  you  have  been  doing."  she  said.  "I  musfc 
try  to  entertain  you  with  what  happened  last  night. 
The  room  was  very  hot  and  full,  and  indeed,  with 
Sir  Henry  bouncing  about,  there  was  little  space  for 
anybody  else  to  dance  at  all.  Such  an  elephant  I 
have  never  yet  seen  outside  a  menagerie  or  at  the 
Durbar,  and  I  should  not  wonder  if  when  he  retired 
next  year,  as  I  am  told  he  does,  Barnum  offered 
something  handsome  for  him.  But  it  would  be  a 
risky  purchase;  he  might  burst  any  day  and  cover 
the  place  with  pomegranate  seeds." 

Elizabeth  gave  a  little  inward  gurgle  of  laugh- 
ter at  this  picturesque  phrasing.  A  peculiarity  of 
Mrs.  Fanshawe,  and  one  which  she  shared  with 
many  of  the  human  race,  was  that,  when  vexed,  her 
sense  of  humour  entirely  deserted  her,  though  her 


THE  RIDDLE  GROWS  43 

humour  itself  indulged  in  admirable  touches.  There 
was,  for  instance,  humour  in  her  swift  thumb-nail 
sketch  of  an  exploding  warrior  in  a  menagerie,  but 
her  perception  of  her  own  feUcity  failed  to  recog- 
nize it.  Under  these  circumstances  it  was  not  diplo- 
matic for  others  to  greet  it;  their  amusement  was 
not  wanted.  Mrs.  Fanshawe  proceeded  in  her  in- 
imitable way,  in  a  rather  faint  voice. 

"Tuesday,  Wednesday,  Thursday,"  she  said.  "I 
hope,  Elizabeth,  you  will  be  able  to  let  me  see  a 
little  of  you  before  you  bury  yourself  in  your  trunks. 
I  hope,  too,  you  will  keep  a  hand  on  your  natural 
exuberance  during  your  voyage.  You  must  not  be 
carried  away  by  such  foolish  sallies  and  witticisms 
as  seemed  to  amuse  you  during  dinner,  and  make 
undesirable  acquaintances.  There  is  sure  to  be  a 
number  of  skylarking  young  men  on  board  going 
home,  who  will  want  to  romp  with  any  girl  handy. 
And  be  careful  to  dress  very  plainly  and  quietly. 
You  will  earn  in  respect  what  you  will  lose  in  being 
stared  at.  Of  course  you  will  chiefly  sit  in  the  ladies' 
saloon,  especially  after  dark,  and  not  play  any  of 
those  foolish  games  with  buckets  and  bits  of  rope, 
which  occasion  so  much  silly  shouting  and  giggling, 
unless  there  are  one  or  two  elderly  women  play- 
ing!" 

She  observed,  with  a  shaded  glance,  that  Eliza- 
beth had  finished  the  strawberries. 

"Perhaps  you  would  pass  me  the  strawberries, 
dear,"  she  said.    "They  are  quite  excellent." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry!"  began  Elizabeth. 

"Ah,  you  have  eaten  them  all,  have  you?  It  is 
not  of  the  slightest  consequence.  I  only  wanted 
one  or  two,  and  no  doubt  I  am  quite  as  well  without 
them.  Indeed,  I  am  only  glad  that  you  have  en- 
joyed them  so  much,  and  wish  for  your  sake  there 
were  more.    Ah,  here  is  your  father  back  from  seeing 


44  ARUNDEL 

poor  Sir  Henry  off.  Take  the  dish  off  the  table, 
darling,  so  that  he  shall  not  see  we  have  had  straw- 
berries, for  they  are  his  favourite  fruit." 

The  goaded  Elizabeth  turned. 

"Daddy,"  she  said,  "I  have  eaten  all  the  straw- 
berries, so  that  there  are  none  for  you  and  mamma." 

Mrs.  Fanshawe  gave  her  a  reproachful  glance. 

"Really,  Ehzabeth!"  she  said.  "So  you  are  back. 
Bob.  Did  you  see  the  poor  old  man  into  his  train? 
I  was  saying  to  Elizabeth  that  I  hoped  it  was  only 
wine,  but  I  am  afraid  his  brain  must  be  going.  I 
should  not  wonder  if  he  became  quite  childish." 

Colonel  Fanshawe  lifted  his  eyebrows  in  mild 
surprise. 

"Sir  Henry?"  he  said.  "I  hope  neither  conjecture 
is  true,  my  dear.  By  the  way,  he  sent  his  warmest 
thanks  to  you  and  hoped  so  much  that  when  you 
went  up  to  Simla  you  would  stay  with  him  a  week 
or  two.  He  will  be  there  all  next  month.  But  of 
course  if  you  are  afraid  of  his  being  sent  for  to  go 
to  the  asylum " 

Mrs.  Fanshawe  did  not  waste  time  over  her  transi- 
tions; she  did  not  modulate  from  key  to  key,  but, 
without  sequence  of  transitional  chords,  put  her  fin- 
ger firmly  down  on  the  notes  she  intended  to  play. 

"My  darling,  how  literally  you  take  my  little 
joke!"  she  said.  "Dear  Sir  Henry!  He  is  like  a 
great  boy,  is  he  not,  with  his  jokes  and  high  spirits! 
I  declare  he  made  me  feel  a  hundred  years  old.  I 
must  say  that  it  is  very  civil  of  him,  and  of  course 
I  shall  go.  I  regard  the  invitations  of  the  Com- 
mander-in-Chief as  a  royal  command,  when  one  is  in 
India." 

An  unusual  impulse  of  candour  took  possession 
of  her. 

"Besides,"  she  said,  "it  will  be  much  more  amus- 
ing and  comfortable  than  at  the  hotel" 


THE  RIDDLE  GROWS  45 

Elizabeth,  as  had  now  been  settled,  was  to  start 
for  England  the  next  week,  and  since,  after  the 
visit  of  the  Commander-in-Chief,  a  quiet  reaction 
settled  down  on  Peshawar,  Mrs.  Fanshawe  was  at 
liberty  to  work  herself  to  the  bone,  as  she  herself 
phrased  it,  to  make  preparations  for  her  departure. 
As  a  matter  of  strict  fact,  her  labours  in  this  regard 
were  to  order  her  ayah  to  wash  out  a  Thermos  flask 
of  hers,  the  possession  of  which,  she  declared,  would 
make  "all  the  difference"  to  Elizabeth's  comfort  on 
her  journey  down  to  Bombay,  and  to  determine  to 
finish  a  woollen  crochet  scarf  for  her,  which  would 
make  "all  the  difference"  when  she  was  on  the 
boat.  The  necessity  of  finishing  this — for  her  de- 
termination was  invincible  on  the  point — caused  her 
to  insist  on  a  good  deal  of  reading  aloud  in  the  even- 
ing, which  she  always  enjoyed,  while  the  breaking 
of  the  Thermos  flask — quite  irreplaceable  in  Pesha- 
war— by  her  ayah  gave  her  an  excuse,  which  she  had 
long  been  wanting,  for  dismissing  her,  since  it  was 
quite  impossible  to  trust  a  woman  who  could  be 
careless  over  such  a  treasure,  and  to  keep  a  servant 
whom  she  could  not  trust,  was  to  violate  one  of  her 
most  sound  household  laws.  Under  the  stress  of 
these  duties  it  was  only  prudent  to  rest  for  rather 
longer  hours  than  usual  after  lunch,  with  the  crochet 
scarf  put  on  a  table  by  her  sofa,  in  case  her  after- 
noon insomnia  was  persistent,  and  except  for  lunch, 
she  was  practically  mvisible  until  evening.  Under 
these  circumstances,  though  she  continued  to  plan 
long  quiet  days  for  herself  and  Elizabeth  before 
the  wrench  of  parting  came,  the  girl  saw  more  than 
usual  of  her  father,  for,  to  speak  frankly,  it  was 
impossible  to  have  the  sense  of  seeing  anybody  else 
when  Mrs.  Fanshawe  was  present.  She  was  ob- 
trusive in  the  faint  but  shrill  trumpeting  manner  of 
a  mosquito. 


46  ARUNDEL 

To  Elizabeth,  therefore,  and,  though  loyalty  pre- 
vented his  ever  forming  such  a  thought  to  himself, 
perhaps  to  her  father,  too,  these  days  had  a  re- 
captured charm.  It  was  now  a  couple  of  years 
since  her  stepmother  had  made  the  third — not  shad- 
owy— in  her  home;  before  that,  for  her  mother  had 
died  in  her  infancy,  she  and  her  father  had  been 
inseparable  companions.  And  in  these  two  years 
Elizabeth  had  grown  up;  from  the  high  romantic 
mists  of  childhood,  she  had  stepped  down  into  the 
level  plains,  and  saw  womanhood  stretching  out  in 
front  of  her.  As  was  natural,  that  expanse  had  come 
slowly  and  gradually  into  sight,  and  it  was  not  till 
these  few  days  of  companionship  with  her  father 
brought  back  the  habit  of  earlier  years  that  she 
began  to  realize  how  far  she  had  travelled.  She 
found,  too,  that  the  adequacy  of  the  prattling  com- 
panionship of  childliood  no  longer  satisfied  her;  her 
heart  needed  a  more  mature  diet,  her  brain  was 
awake  and  tingling  with  a  hundred  questions  and 
surmises  such  as  a  few  days  before  hari  inspired 
her  wondering  conjectures  when  she  found  him  at 
work  in  his  garden.  Then,  for  the  first  time  quite 
consciously,  she  had  asked  herself  that  momentous 
question  as  to  the  meaning,  the  principle  that  lay 
behind  all  the  phenomena  which  she  had  taken  for 
granted;  then,  too,  she  had  realized  that  to  her 
father  the  explanation  lay  in,  or,  at  any  rate,  was 
bound  up  with,  something  inherent  in  the  prayers 
and  hymns  at  church.  There  to  him  was  the  finality 
which  she  had  been  consciously  seeking,  about  which 
for  the  first  time  she  felt  any  real  curiosity. 

But  she  was  as  dififident  about  putting  any  ques- 
tion to  him  about  it  as  he,  all  these  years,  had  been 
of  initiating  any  speech  on  the  subject.  A  man's 
religious  convictions  necessarily  take  the  colour  and 
texture,  so  to  speak,  of  his  mind,  and  this  quiet, 


THE  RIDDLE  GROWS  47 

unassertive  man  was  no  more  in  the  habit  of  speak- 
ing about  them  than  about  his  loyalty  to  the  King 
or  his  habits  of  personal  cleanliness.  Such  sub- 
jects as  these,  rightly  or  wrongly,  are  the  last  to  find 
vocal  expression ;  he  would  have  found  it  as  difficult 
and  as  unnatural  to  speak  to  Elizabeth  on  religious 
topics  as  to  discourse  on  the  meaning  of  the  Na- 
tional Anthem,  or  ask  her  at  breakfast  if  she  had 
performed  her  ablutions  with  thoroughness.  In  his 
own  case,  his  conduct,  his  work,  and  his  immaculate 
appearance  bore  witness  to  the  reality  of  his  con- 
victions on  these  three  respects,  and.  though  he 
shared  with  no  mother  the  responsibility  of  par- 
entage, he  assumed  her  welfare  in  these  regards.  It 
was  not  because  the  reality  of  them  was  faint  to 
him  that  he  was  reticent,  it  was  because  the  reality 
was  a  matter  of  instinct,  deeply  felt  and  inwardly 
imperative.  Throughout  the  reigns  of  various  gov- 
ernesses, he  had  from  time  to  time  reminded  those 
laches  of  his  wish  that  a  Bible  lesson  should  in- 
augurate the  labours  of  the  day,  and,  having  thus 
provided  for  the  material  of  religious  instruction,  he 
believed  that  the  child's  nature  would,  out  of  that 
pabulum,  secrete,  in  the  manner  of  well-nourished 
bodily  glands,  the  secret  essences  that  sustained  and 
built.  But  there  had  resulted  from  this  method  of 
reticence,  a  symptom  which  should  have  troubled 
him  if  he  wanted  confirmation  of  its  success,  for 
Elizabeth,  so  open,  so  garrulous  with  him  on  all 
other  subjects,  had  never  spoken  to  him  on  this  one. 
This  he  set  down  to  the  same  instinct  that  made 
himself  shy  of  speech  on  such  subjects,  namely,  the 
inherent  conviction  that  does  not  care  to  discuss 
matters  like  loyalty  and  cleanliness.  It  had  never 
occurred  to  him  that  her  silence  was  due  to  indif- 
ference, to  mcuriousness,  and  that  religious  instruc- 
tion was  to  her  no  more  than  a  part  of  the  curricu- 


48  ARUNDEL 

lum  of  the  week-day  church,  an  hour's  slightly  dis- 
tasteful feature  of  Sunday  morning. 

But  now  Elizabeth's  curiosity  was  aroused. 
"The  scheme  of  things  entire"  had  begun  to  make 
audible  to  her  its  first  faint  flute-like  call,  a  call 
that,  before  there  has  fallen  on  the  spirit  any  ex- 
perience of  agony,  of  darkness,  of  loneliness,  is  as 
fascinating  as  the  music  of  Pan  or  the  voice  of 
Sirens,  and  she  longed  to  know  how  it  sounded  in  the 
ears  of  others.  For  herself,  she  was  confused,  be- 
wildered by  the  remote  uncapturable  melody,  that 
at  present  only  gave  hints  in  broken  phrases  to  her 
untrained  ear. 

The  two  were  riding  back  one  day  from  a  horse- 
back saunter  along  the  lanes  among  the  fruit  or- 
chards. The  blossom  was  beginning  to  fall,  and 
when  a  pufif  of  wind  disturbed  its  uncertain  cling- 
ing the  ground  below  would  be  showered  with 
snowy  pear-blossom  or  pink  with  the  flower  of  the 
peach.  Elizabeth,  in  tune  with  the  spring,  was 
inclined  to  lament  this. 

"I  would  almost  go  without  peaches,"  she  said, 
"if  that  would  save  the  blossom  from  falling." 

He  laughed. 

"Yet  it  would  be  a  hard  choice,"  he  said,  "to  de- 
termine whether  one  would  look  at  a  tree  covered 
with  blossom,  instead  of  having  dessert.  I  think  I 
should  let  Nature  take  its  course,  Lizzie,  after  all." 

"Is  it  meant  that  the  blossom  has  to  fall  before 
the  fruit  comes?"  she  asked. 

"Well,  yes.  To  want  it  otherwise  would  be  paral- 
lel to  wanting  girls  and  boys  not  to  grow  up." 

"And  you  do?" 

"Naturally,  though  it  is  at  the  expense  of  their 
rosy  petals."  This  seemed  to  give  Elizabeth  suffi- 
cient material  for  a  pondering  silence,  which  lasted 
a  couple  of  minutes. 


THE  RIDDLE  GROWS  49 

"/  want  to  grow  up,"  she  observed,  "and  keep  all 
my  youth  as  well." 

He  smiled  at  her. 

"Hard,  but  worth  attempting,"  he  said. 

"Oh  ...  do  you  mean  it  is  possible,  daddy?" 

"Certainly!  You  can  keep  all  of  youth  that  is 
really  worth  having.  But,  as  I  said,  hard.  For 
instance,  you  can  continue  to  have  all  the  glow  of 
enthusiasm  of  youth  till  it  is  time  to  think  about 
— about  turning  in." 

"Dying?  I  don't  want  ever  to  think  about  it. 
I  think  it  is  a  perfectly  disgusting  prospect.  Don't 
you  hate  the  idea  of  it,  daddy?" 

He  let  his  eyes  dwell  on  her  a  moment. 

"I  can't  say  that  I  do,  Lizzie,"  he  said.  "Don't 
misunderstand  me.  I  enjoy  life  tremendously;  I'm 
not  in  the  least  tired  of  it.  But,  as  for  hating  the 
idea  of  death,  why  no!  You  see,  you  see,  it's  only 
another  stage  in  growing  up,  which  is  a  process 
with  which,  as  I  said,  I  am  in  sympathy." 

They  were  passing  through  a  lane  deeply  sunk 
between  its  adjacent  fields;  a  cool  draught  flowed 
down  it,  and  Elizabeth  shivered. 

"Oh,  daddy,  to  be  put  in  the  cold  earth!"  she 
said.  "That,  anyhow,  is  a  quite  certain  accompani- 
ment of  death ;  there  is  no  doubt  about  that.  And 
about  the  rest,  who  knows?" 

"My  dear,  you  don't  doubt,  do  you?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  do.  One  is  taught;  I  was 
taught.  I  suppose  I  beheve  m  the  arithmetic  I 
learned,  and  in  the  geography  I  learned " 

She  broke  off  suddenly  as  a  little  wind,  as  it  were, 
blew  across  the  placid  sunHt  sea  of  her  conscious- 
ness, shattering  the  brightnesses. 

"But  because  I  have  learned  a  thing  it  does  not 
become  part  of  me,  as  people  tell  me,"  she  said. 
"You  have  to  leaven  a  thing  with  love  in  order  to 


50  ARUNDEL 

assimilate  it.  I've  always  known  that  those  things 
are  bone  of  your  bone  to  you,  part  of  you,  vital 
part  of  you,  part  that  could  not  be  amputated.  Even 
the  fact  that  you  have  never  talked  to  me  about 
them  has  shown  that.  You  don't  tell  me  that  you 
love  me,  simply  because  it  is  part  of  you  to  do  so; 
nor  do  I  remind  you  that  I  have  ten  fingers  and  ten 
toes." 

She  checked  her  horse  as  they  emerged  from  the 
lane  into  the  stream  of  the  traffic  that  was  passing 
into  the  native  city. 

"That's  why  we  have  never  talked  about  it, 
daddy,"  she  said  in  sudden  enhghtenment.  "It  was 
too  real  to  you,  and  it  didn't  touch  me." 

She  had  never  seen  him  so  troubled, 

"Didn't  touch  you?"  he  asked.  "You  don't  be- 
lieve  " 

Elizabeth  laid  her  hand  on  his  knee. 

"Daddy  dear,  I  beUeve  in  all  things  living  and 
beautiful,  and  true.  Don't  take  it  to  heart — pray 
don't.  Does — does  the  blossom  know  what  fruit  is 
coming?    But  surely  the  fruit  comes." 

Swiftly,  suddenly  at  this  supreme  instant  of  sun- 
set, all  the  world  was  changed ;  it  was  as  if  it  passed 
into  the  heart  of  an  opal.  The  dust  of  the  main 
road  into  which  the  two  had  just  turned  was  trans- 
figured into  mist  of  gold  and  rose;  the  wayfarers 
who  passed  along,  plodding  home  with  camels  and 
mild-eyed  buffaloes,  were  changed  into  citizens  of 
some  rainbow-kingdom.  More  brilliant  grew  the 
excellent  opalescence,  and  then  all  the  tints  of  it 
were  sucked  up  into  one  soft  crimson  that  flooded 
earth  and  sky.  Then,  as  the  darkness  began  to 
overlay  it,  it  grew  dusky  and  yet  duskier,  till  the 
incarnadined  air  was  robbed  of  its  glories.  But 
high  above  them  northwards  and  eastwards  flamed 
the  rose-coloured  snows. 


BOOK  ONE 

CHAPTER   III 

COMFORTABLE   MRS.   HANCOCK 

It  is  almost  doubtful  whether  it  is  right  to  call 
Heathmoor  a  village,  since  there  is  something 
plebeian  about  the  word,  implying  labourers'  cot- 
tages and  public-houses  and  an  admixture  of  cordu- 
roy in  the  trousers  of  the  male  inhabitants  with 
strings  tied,  for  reasons  eternally  inexplicable,  below 
their  knees.  Even  less  is  Heathmoor  a  town,  if  by  a 
town  we  denote  an  assemblage  of  houses  cheek  to 
jowl,  streets  with  tramways  or  omnibuses  and  a 
scarcity  of  trees  and  gardens.  Indeed,  no  known 
word  implying  the  collected  domicile  of  human 
beings — which  Heathmoor  certainly  is — will  describe 
it,  and  the  indication  of  it  necessitates  a  more  ver- 
bose method. 

It  lies  at  so  convenient  a  distance  from  the  me- 
tropolis, and  is  served  by  so  swift  and  proper  a  suc- 
cession of  trains  at  those  hours  when  Heathmoor 
travels,  that  it  combines,  as  its  inhabitants  unani- 
mously declare,  all  the  advantages  of  town  with 
the  pleasures  and  fine  air  of  the  country.  Twenty 
minutes  in  a  well-padded  railway-carriage  with  bev- 
elled mirrors  and  attractive  photographs  of  beaches 
and  abbeys  and  nice  clear  rivers  lands  the  business 
men  to  whom  Heathmoor  almost  entirely  belongs 
in  one  of  the  main  and  central  arteries  of  the  Lon- 
don streets,  and  twenty-three  minutes  suffices  to 

51 


52  ARUNDEL 

take  them  and  their  wives  and  daughters  home  again 
after  they  have  dined  in  town  and  been  to  the 
play.  The  question  of  those  extra  minutes  is  a 
staple  of  conversation  in  Heathmoor,  and  there  is 
a  great  deal  of  high  feeling  about  it,  for  nobody 
can  see,  especially  after  hours  of  conversation  on 
the  subject,  why  the  railway  company  should  not 
quicken  up  the  return  trains  in  the  evening.  An- 
other peculiarity  of  those  otherwise  admirable  trains 
is  that  the  first-class  carriages  are  invariably  full 
and  the  rest  of  the  vehicles  comparatively  empty. 
Tickets,  moreover — those  mean  little  oblongs  of 
cardboard — are  seldom  seen,  and  ticket  collectors 
never  make  their  demands.  If  some  energetic  young 
man,  newly  promoted,  ventures  to  open  a  first-class 
carriage-door  between  Heathmoor  and  London,  by 
the  train  that  leaves  Heathmoor  at  9.6  a.m.,  for 
instance,  or  the  later  one  at  9.42  a.m.,  its  occupants 
look  at  him  in  disgusted  astonishment.  One,  per- 
haps, sufficiently  unbends  to  murmur,  "Season," 
but  probably  no  notice  is  taken  of  liim  till  the  guard, 
hurrying  up,  gives  him  a  couple  of  hot  words,  and 
apologizes  to  the  gentlemen.  On  the  whole,  they 
are  not  made  uncomfortable  by  such  intrusions;  in- 
terruption, in  fact,  rarely  occurring,  somewhat  em- 
phasizes the  privileged  aloofness  of  these  Heathmoor 
magnates,  just  as  an  occasional  trespasser  in  well- 
ordered  domains  makes  to  glow  the  more  brightly 
the  sense  of  proprietorship.  The  impertinence  re- 
ceives but  a  shrug,  and  a  settlement  behind  the  page 
of  the  Financial  Times  follows. 

The  second  of  these  trains,  namely,  the  9.42  a.m. 
from  Heathmoor,  performs  a  more  sociable  jour- 
ney, for  there  is  less  of  the  Financial  Times  in  it 
and  more  of  the  ladies  of  Heathmoor,  who,  with 
business  to  transact  in  the  shops,  go  up  to  town 
in  the  morning  with  amazing  frequency,  returning. 


COMFORTABLE  MRS.  HANCOCK     53 

for  the  most  part,  by  an  equally  swift  transit,  which 
lands  them  back  at  home  again  at  twenty  minutes 
past  one.  All  the  morning,  in  consequence,  be- 
tween those  hours  the  roads  at  Heathmoor,  which 
are  level  and  well  drained  owing  to  its  famous  grav- 
elly soil,  which  renders  it  so  salubrious  a  settlement, 
are  comparatively  empty,  for  those  who  do  not  go 
to  London  find  in  their  houses  and  gardens  sufl5cient 
occupation  to  detain  them  there  till  lunch-time. 
Once  again,  between  five  and  six  the  male  popula- 
tion swarms  homewards,  and  a  row  of  cabs  uni- 
formly patronized  awaits  the  arrival  of  the  mid- 
night train  from  town,  which  enables  its  travellers 
to  have  stayed  to  the  very  end  of  most  theatrical 
performances. 

A  small  mercantile  quarter  clusters  round  the 
station,  but  the  local  shops  are  neither  numerous 
nor,  as  Mrs.  Hancock,  Colonel  Fanshawe's  widowed 
sister,  sometimes  laments,  "choice."  Butcher,  baker, 
and  greengrocer  supply  the  less  "choice"  comforts  of 
life,  but  if  you  want  a  sweetbread  in  a  hurry,  or 
a  bundle  of  early  asparagus,  it  is  idle  to  expect  any- 
thing of  the  sort.  A  "Court  milliner,"  who  lately 
set  up  there  behind  a  plate-glass  window  and  some 
elegant  "forms,"  has  a  great  deal  of  time  on  her 
hands,  and  a  tailor,  who  professes  to  have  the  new- 
est suitings,  and  to  be  unrivalled  in  the  matter  of 
liveries,  does  little  more  than  put  an  occasional 
patch  in  the  garments  of  the  male  inhabitants,  for 
Heathmoor,  in  general,  gets  its  apparel  from  metro- 
politan markets,  and  prefers  to  be  waited  on  by  large 
and  noiseless  parlourmaids.  In  fact,  the  mercantile 
quarter  forms  but  an  insignificant  fraction  of  Heath- 
moor residences,  the  bulk  of  which  consists  of  ad- 
mirably comfortable  and  commodious  villas,  each 
standing  segregate  in  its  acre  or  half-acre  of  garden. 
All  along  the  well-kept  roads — the  roads  at  Heath- 


54  ARUNDEL 

moor  seem  to  be  washed  and  dusted,  like  china, 
every  morning — are  situated  these  residences,  so 
aptly  described  as  desirable,  each  with  its  gate,  its 
laurel  hedge,  and  small  plot  of  grass  in  front,  each 
with  its  tennis-court  or  croquet-lawn  at  back,  its 
tiled  roofs,  its  "tradesmen's  entrance,"  and  its  crim- 
son rambler  aspiring  above  the  dining-room  bow- 
window.  The  larger  houses — those  in  fact  which 
stand  on  acre  plots — have  a  stable  or  garage  at- 
tached to  them,  though  all  are  in  telephonic  com- 
munication with  the  livery  stables  that  are  situ- 
ated on  the  far  sitle  of  the  railway-bridge,  and  all 
are  built  in  accordance  with  a  certain  English  norm 
or  rule,  designed  to  ensure  solid  comfort  and  an 
absence  of  draughts.  There  is  none  that  lacks  the 
electric  light,  none  in  which  rivers  of  hot  and  cold 
water  are  not  laid  on  upstairs  and  downstairs,  none 
that  lacks  a  lavatory  situated  close  to  the  front  door, 
in  which  is  hung  up  a  convincing  and  lucid  diagram 
of  the  system  of  drainage.  But  there  is  no  monot- 
ony or  uniformity  in  the  appearance  of  these  houses; 
some  are  of  brick,  some  of  rough-cast,  and  all  have 
a  certain  mediocre  individuality  of  their  own — like 
the  faces  of  a  flock  of  sheep — which  renders  them 
to  the  observ'er  as  various  as  the  high-sounding 
names  that  are  so  clearly  printed  on  their  front 
gates. 

Most  of  these  exceedingly  comfortable  houses,  de- 
signed for  the  complete  convenience  of  couples  with 
or  without  small  families,  are,  as  has  been  said,  built 
on  half-acre  or  acre  plots.  They  are  all  of  modern 
construction,  with  a  view  to  the  saving  of  domestic 
labour,  for  Heathmoor  as  a  place  of  residence  for 
well-to-do  City  men  is  but  of  late  discovery.  But 
here  and  there  a  more  spacious  specimen  can  be 
encountered,  and  Mrs.  Hancock,  who  found  noth- 
ing choice  in  the  Heathmoor  shops,  had  some  ten 


COMFORTABLE  MRS.  HANCOCK    55 

years  ago,  on  the  death  of  her  husband,  bought  two 
of  these  acre  plots,  and  had  built  thereon  a  house  of 
larger  rooms,  a  boudoir,  and  a  stable  with  coach- 
man's quarters.  Since  then  she  had  devoted  nearly 
all  her  income  to  rendering  herself  completely  and 
absolutely  comfortable.  An  excellent  cook,  salaried 
at  sixty  pounds  a  year,  a  sum  which,  according  to 
the  regular  Heathmoor  standard,  would  be  consid- 
ered to  be  sufficient  to  pay  the  wages  of  a  parlour- 
maid also,  largely  contributed  to  her  well-being,  and 
a  maid,  a  serious  butler  with  the  deportment  of  a 
dean,  a  chauffeur,  two  housemaids,  a  kitchen-maid, 
a  gardener,  and  a  daughter  were  all  devoted  to  the 
same  mission.  The  daughter  occupies  the  ultimate 
place  in  this  list,  not  because  Edith  was  not  loving 
and  loved,  but  because  on  the  whole  her  contribu- 
tion to  her  mother's  comfort  was  materially  less 
than  that  of  any  of  the  others,  though  perhaps 
physically  more.  Indeed,  she  shared  in  rather  than 
subscribed  to  it,  drove  with  her  in  her  motor,  ate 
of  the  delicious  food,  while  in  the  evenings  she 
laid  out  her  own  game  of  patience,  without  being 
called  upon  to  advise  or  condole  or  congratulate  in 
respect  of  Mrs.  Hancock's.  It  is  true  that  the  win- 
dow on  Edith's  side  of  the  car  was  put  down  if 
her  mother  required  a  little  more  air  without  being 
too  close  to  its  ingress,  and  put  up  if  Mrs.  Hancock 
m  her  seat  wished  to  avoid  a  draught,  but  she  was 
by  no  means  enserfed  to  the  ruling  spirit  that  di- 
rected and  controlled  the  movements  of  the  other 
dependents.  Naturally  she  drove  and  dined  with 
her  mother,  read  her  into  a  comfortable  doze  after 
tea,  and  did  all  the  duties  of  a  daughter,  but  she 
had,  even  when  with  Mrs.  Hancock,  an  existence 
and  a  volition  of  her  own,  which  the  others  had  not. 
Indeed,  there  was  at  this  present  time  an  event 
maturing  that  promised  to  provide  Edith  with  a 


56  ARUNDEL 

completer  independence  yet,  for  Mrs.  Hancock  had 
for  months  been  encouraging  an  attachment  that 
was  wholly  sensible,  and.  like  most  sensible  things, 
could  not  possibly  be  called  romantic.  Edward  Hol- 
royd,  the  young  man  in  question,  was  very  well  off, 
being  partner  in  a  firm  of  sound,  steady-going 
brokers  in  the  City,  was  regularity  itself  in  the  per- 
sistence with  which  he  caught  the  9.6  a.m.  train  to 
town  every  morning,  and,  as  far  as  could  be  as- 
certained, had  never,  in  spite  of  his  twenty-seven 
years,  given  any  serious  attention  to  a  girl  until  Mrs. 
Hancock  firmly  turned  his  well-featured  head  in 
Edith's  direction.  He  lived,  furthermore,  in  a  half- 
acre  residence  of  his  own,  next  door  to  ^Irs.  Han- 
cock, and  this  she  reckoned  as  a  solid  item  among 
his  eligibilities,  for  Edith  would  be  able  to  give  a 
great  deal  of  companionship  to  her  mother  during 
the  hours  when  her  husband  was  in  the  City.  Mrs. 
Hancock  did  not  forget  to  add — to  her  own  credit 
side,  so  to  speak — that,  since  Edith  would  thus  gen- 
erally lunch  with  her.  and  drive  with  her  afterwards, 
this  would  save  her  daughter  something  substantial 
in  house-books,  and  give  her  the  motor-drive  she 
was  accustomed  to.  It  is  true  that  her  prospective 
husband  had  a  motor  of  his  own  in  which  it  might 
be  supposed  that  Edith  could  take  the  air  if  so  in- 
clined, consequently  Mrs.  Hancock  added  another 
item  to  her  own  credit  when  she  reflected  that  if 
Edith  drove  with  her  there  would  be  effected  a  sav- 
ing in  Edward's  tyre  and  petrol  bills.  This  was  en- 
tirely congenial  to  her  mind,  for  she  delighted  to 
make  economies  for  other  people  as  well  as  herself, 
if  the  perfection  of  her  own  comfort  was  not  af- 
fected thereby. 

On  this  genial  morning  of  early  May,  ventilated 
by  a  breath  of  south-west  wind,  and  warmed  by  a 
summer  sun,  the  dining-room  windows  of  Arundel 


COMFORTABLE  MRS.  HANCOCK    57 

— the  agreeable  name  of  Mrs.  Hancock's  house — 
were  both  open,  and  she  was  sitting  at  a  writing- 
table  just  within,  fixing  her  plans  for  the  day.  She 
always  sat  here  after  breakfast  until  she  had  seen 
her  cook,  sent  orders  to  her  chaufi"eur,  and  read 
the  smaller  paragraphs  in  the  Morning  Post. 
Usually  the  plans  for  the  day,  the  marching  orders, 
as  she  habitually  called  them,  depended  completely 
on  the  weather.  If  it  was  fine  she  drove  in  her  car 
from  twelve  to  a  quarter-past  one,  and  again,  after 
a  salutary  digestive  pause  after  lunch,  when  she  en- 
gaged with  the  more  solid  paragraphs  in  the  Morn- 
ing Post,  from  three  till  a  quarter  to  five.  This,  it 
must  be  understood,  was  the  curriculum  for  the 
summer;  in  the  winter  radical  changes  might  occur; 
and  sometimes  if  the  morning  was  fine,  but  prom- 
ised rain  later,  she  would  start  as  early  as  eleven, 
and  went  out — if  the  weather  still  held  up — for 
quite  a  short  time  in  the  afternoon.  But  she  always 
went  out  twice,  even  if  occasionally  her  inclina- 
tion would  have  been  to  stop  at  home,  for  Denton, 
the  steady  chauffeur,  and  Lind,  the  serious  butler, 
would  have  thought  it  odd  if  she  did  not  take  two 
airings.  Did  she,  then,  go  out  when  she  had  a  bad 
cold?    No;  but  then  she  never  had  a  bad  cold. 

To-day,  however,  being  Ascension  Day,  the 
marching  orders  became  exceedingly  complicated; 
and  when  Lind  came  in  to  say  that  Denton  was  wait- 
ing for  her  commands,  he  received  the  same  in- 
structions that  had  been  given  him  last  Ascension 
Day,  but  never  since.  These  were  not  the  same  as 
on  Sundays  and  Christmas  Days,  because  on  Ascen- 
sion Day  Mrs.  Hancock  drove  in  the  afternoon. 

"Tell  Denton  I  shall  want  the  car  at  ten  minutes 
to  eleven,"  she  said.  "No;  you  had  better  say  a 
quarter  to — to  take  me  to  church.  He  must  be  back 
there  at  a  quarter-past  twelve,  or,  say  ten  minutes 


58  ARUNDEL 

past.    I  shall  drive  this  afternoon  at  three.    Or- 


Mrs.  Hancock  pondered  a  moment,  exactly  as  she 
had  done  on  last  Ascension  Day. 

"Edith,  dear,"  she  said  to  her  daughter,  who 
was  winding  the  clock,  "I  think  we  had  better  lunch 
to-day  at  one  instead  of  at  half-past.  There  will 
not  be  time  to  settle  down  to  anything  after  church. 
And  in  that  case  we  had  better  go  out  this  after- 
noon at  half-past  two.  And  lunch  will  be  at  one, 
Lind.     I  will  see  IVIrs.  Williams  now." 

She  paused  again.  This  was  not  a  usual  Ascen- 
sion Day  pause,  though  connected  with  it. 

'T  see  there  is  a  holiday  on  the  Stock  Exchange, 
Edith,"  she  said,  "so  perhaps  IVIr.  Holroyd  will  lunch 
with  us.    Wait  a  moment,  Lind." 

She  did  not  scribble  a  note,  and  never  had  done 
so,  but  wrote  it  very  neatly,  begging  parrlon  for  so 
short  a  notice,  and  hoping  that  if — a  verbal  answer 
was  all  that  was  required. 

"I  will  see  Mrs.  Williams  as  soon  as  I  get  the 
answer,  Lind,"  she  said,  "and  I  will  tell  you  then 
whether  we  shall  be  two  at  lunch  or  three." 

It  was  not  worth  while  to  "settle"  to  anything 
when  an  interruption  would  come  so  soon ;  and  IVIrs. 
Hancock  looked  quietly  and  contentedly  out  over 
the  garden,  where  Ellis  was  mowing  the  tennis-court. 
The  flower-beds  below  the  window  dazzled  with  the 
excellence  of  their  crimson  tulips,  and  swooned  with 
the  sunny  fragrance  of  their  wallflowers,  and  the 
hedge  of  espaliered  apples  that  separated  the  lawn 
from  the  kitchen-garden  was  pink  with  blooms  of 
promise.  The  rose-trees  were  all  cut  back  in  storage 
for  their  summer  flowering;  no  spike  of  weed  was 
insolent  on  the  well-kept  paths  or  garden-beds,  and 
no  tending  that  the  most  exacting  gardener's  com- 
panion could  suggest  as  suitable  to  the  season  had 
been  left  undone.    The  same  flawless  neatness  dis- 


COMFORTABLE  MRS.  HANCOCK    59 

tinguished  the  dining-room  from  which  Mrs.  Han- 
cock looked  out.  Landseer  prints  hung  quite  straight 
on  the  paper  of  damask  red.  Such  chairs  as  were 
not  in  use  stood  square-shouldered  to  the  walls; 
the  writing-table  where  she  sat  was  dustlessly  fur- 
nished with  pens,  pen-wipers,  pencils,  sealing-wax, 
and  all  stationery  appertaining;  the  maroon  curtains 
were  looped  back  at  exactly  the  same  angle,  and 
six  inches  of  green  blind  showed  at  the  top  of  each 
window.  Room  and  garden  were  as  soignes  as  Mrs. 
Hancock's  own  abundant  hair. 

Mrs.  Hancock's  pass-book  had  been  returned  to 
her  from  her  bankers  that  morning,  and  she  found 
it  quite  pleasant  reading,  pleasant  enough,  indeed, 
to  open  and  read  again  as  she  waited  for  the  arrival 
of  the  verbal  message  from  next  door.  Next  to 
devising  and  procuring  all  that  could  be  secured  of 
material  comforts,  the  occupation  that,  perhaps, 
chiefly  administered  to  her  content  was  that  of  sav- 
ing money.  This  seemed  to  her  an  extremely  al- 
truistic pleasure,  since,  if  you  took  a  large  enough 
view  of  it,  she  was  saving  for  Edith.  Thus  she 
would  always  purchase  anything  she  wanted  at  the 
place  where  it  could  most  cheaply  be  obtained,  pro- 
vided its  quality  was  in  no  way  inferior,  and  she 
never  omitted  to  lay  in  a  replete  cellar  of  coal  dur- 
ing the  summer  months.  Anything  like  waste  was 
abhorrent  to  her,  and,  though  her  ordinary  living 
expenses  were  excessively  high,  she  could  not  se- 
cure absolute  comfort  and  the  flawless  appointment 
of  her  house  at  a  smaller  outlay.  She  paid  high 
wages  to  her  servants  and  gladly  defrayed  their 
doctors'  and  dentists'  bills,  since  she  wished  to  make 
it  impossible  for  them  to  think  of  leaving  her 
when  once  she  was  satisfied  with  them,  for  a  change 
of  servants  was  uncomfortable,  and  produced  days 
of  uneasy  suspense  before  it  became  certain  that 


60  ARUNDEL 

the  new  one  would  suit  her.  All  such  expenses  were 
incurred  to  procure  comfort,  and  so  were  neces- 
sary, but  beyond  them  she  was  extremely  economi- 
cal and  dearly  liked  the  secure  and  continued  feel- 
ing of  a  big  balance  at  the  bank.  When  that  balance 
grew  very  large  she  made  a  prudent  investment, 
often  through  Edward  Holroyd,  and  told  herself  that 
she  was  doing  it  for  the  sake  of  Edith. 

Before  long  came  a  warm  acceptance  of  her  hos- 
pitality from  next  door,  and.  having  sent  for  Mrs. 
Williams,  she  added  mutton  cutlets  to  the  menu,  and 
withdrew  the  asparagus,  as  her  cook  was  certain 
there  was  not  enough  for  three;  then  she  got  up  from 
her  writing-table,  since  the  marching  orders  were 
now  completed.  Her  plump  and  pleasant  face  was 
singularly  unwrinkled.  considering  the  fifty  years 
that  had  passed  over  it,  yet  it  would  perhaps  have 
been  even  more  singular  if  the  years  had  written  on 
it  any  record  of  their  passage.  It  is  true  that  she  had 
married,  had  borne  a  child,  and  had  lost  a  husband, 
but  none  of  these  events  had  marred  the  placidity  of 
her  nature.  At  the  most,  they  had  been  but  pebbles 
tossed  into  and  swallowed  up  below  that  unruf- 
fled surface,  breaking  it  but  for  a  moment  with 
inconsiderable  ripples.  She  harl  married  because  she 
had  easily  seen  the  wisdom  of  becoming  the  wife 
of  a  well-to-do  and  wholly  amiable  man  instead  of 
continuing  to  remain  the  once  handsome  Miss  Julia 
Fanshawe.  Wisdom  still  continued  to  be  justified  of 
her  child,  for  she  enjoyed  the  whole  of  her  late 
husband's  income,  and  since  her  clear  four  thousand 
pounds  a  year  was  derived  from  debenture  stock  and 
first  mortgage  bonds,  it  was  not  likely  that  these 
fruits  of  prudence  would  wither  or  decay  on  this 
side  of  the  grave.  But  she  did  not  ever  distress  or 
harass  herself  with  the  thought  of  anything  so 
comfortless  as  sepulchres,  but  devoted  her  time  and 


COMFORTABLE  MRS.  HANCOCK    61 

money  to  the  preservation  of  her  health,  and  the 
avoidance  of  all  such  worries  and  anxieties  as  could 
possibly  disturb  the  poise  and  equilibrium  of  her 
nervous  system.  She  was  slightly  inclined  to  stout- 
ness, and  occasionally  had  rheumatic  twinges  in  the 
less  important  joints,  but  a  month  spent  annually 
at  Bath  sufficed  to  keep  these  little  ailments  in  check, 
while  the  complete  immunity  she  enjoyed  there  from 
all  household  anxieties,  since  she  lived  in  a  very 
comfortable  hotel,  was  restorative  to  a  nervous  sys- 
tem that  already  hovered  on  perfection,  and  en- 
abled her  to  take  up  her  home  duties  again — which, 
as  has  been  said,  consisted  in  providing  comfort 
for  herself — with  renewed  vigour.  This  visit  to  Bath 
was  to  take  place  next  week,  and  for  the  last  ten 
days  she  had  thought  of  little  else  than  the  question 
as  to  whether  she  would  take  Denton  and  her  motor- 
ear  with  her.  Last  night  only  she  had  come  to  the 
determination  to  do  so,  and  consequently  there  was 
a  great  deal  to  be  thought  about  to-day  as  to  cush- 
ions, luggage,  and  where  to  lunch,  for  she  was  her- 
self going  to  travel  in  it. 

Edith  had  finished  winding  the  clock  when  her 
mother  got  up. 

"There  is  still  half  an  hour  before  we  need  think 
of  getting  ready  for  church,  dear,"  she  said,  "and 
we  might  go  on  planning  our  arrangements  for  next 
week.  The  maps  are  in  the  drawing-room,  for  Den- 
ton brought  them  in  last  night,  but  the  print  is  so 
small  that  I  should  be  glad  if  you  would  get  my 
number  two  spectacles  which  I  left  in  my  bedroom. 
They  are  either  on  my  dressing-table  or  on  the  small 
table  by  my  bed.  Filson  will  find  them  if  you  can- 
not put  your  hand  on  them.  Oh,  look;  there  are 
two  starlings  pecking  at  the  garden-beds.  How 
bold  they  are  with  the  mowing-machine  so  close!  I 
hope  Ellis  will  scare  them  away  from  the  asparagus." 


62  ARUNDEL 

Edith  managed  to  find  the  number  two  spectacles 
without  troubling  Filson,  and  devoted  her  whole 
mind,  which  was  as  tranquil  and  lucid  as  her 
mother's,  to  the  great  question  of  the  journey  to 
Bath.  Though  the  distance  was  something  over  a 
hundred  miles,  it  was  clearly  better  to  risk  being 
a  little  over-tired,  and  compass  the  whole  in  one 
day,  rather  than  spend  the  night — perhaps  not  very 
comfortably — at  some  half-way  country  inn,  where 
it  was  impossible  to  be  certain  about  the  sheets. 
After  all,  if  the  fatigue  was  severe  a  day's  rest  on 
arrival  at  Bath,  postponing  the  treatment  till  the 
day  after,  would  set  things  right.  But  in  that  case 
lunch  must  either  be  obtained  at  Reading,  or,  better 
still,  they  could  take  it  with  them  in  a  luncheon- 
basket,  and  eat  it  en  route.  Denton  could  take  his, 
too,  and  they  would  stop  for  half  an  hour  to  eat  after 
Reading,  thus  dividing  the  journey  into  two  halves. 
So  far  so  good. 

The  question  of  Filson's  journey  was  more  diffi- 
cult. If  the  day  was  fine  she  could,  of  course,  travel 
outside  with  Denton,  but  if  it  was  wet  she  would 
have  to  come  inside — a  less  ideal  arrangement  with 
regard  to  knees.  In  that  case  also  Lind  would  have 
to  go  up  to  town  with  the  heavy  luggage,  and  see 
it  firmly  bestowed  in  the  Bath  express  at  Padding- 
ton.  At  this  point  Edith  triumphantly  vindicated 
the  superiority  of  two  heads  over  one,  and  sug- 
gested that  Filson  should  go  up  to  town  with  the 
heavy  luggage,  and  catch  the  2.30  express  (was  it 
not?)  at  Paddington,  thus  arriving  at  Bath  before 
them.  Indeed,  she  would  have  time  almost  to  un- 
pack before  they  came. 

The  2.30  train  was  verified,  and  thereafter  all 
was  clear.  Lind  would  escort  Filson  and  the  heavy 
luggage  to  the  station,  and  since  Mrs.  Williams 
would  be  putting  up  lunches  anyhow,  Filson  could 


COMFORTABLE  MRS.  HANCOCK    63 

take  hers  as  well.  .  .  .  But  it  was  time  to  get  ready 
for  church,  and  the  question  of  cushions  and  cloaks 
for  so  long  a  drive  which  might  be  partly  cold  and 
partly  warm  must  wait.  But  certainly  Denton 
would  have  to  come  in  either  after  church  or  in  the 
evening,  for  the  route,  which  appeared  to  he  straight 
down  the  Bath  road,  had  not  been  tackled  at  all 
yet. 

Mrs.  Hancock's  religious  convictions  and  prac- 
tices, which  Edith  entirely  shared  with  her,  were 
as  comfortable  as  her  domestic  arrangements,  but 
simpler,  and  they  did  not  occupy  her  mind  for  so 
many  hours  daily.  It  must  be  supposed  that  she 
recognized  the  Christian  virtue  of  charity,  for  other- 
wise she  would  not,  in  the  course  of  the  year,  have 
knitted  so  large  a  quantity  of  thick  scarves,  made 
from  a  cheap  but  reliable  wool,  or  have  sent  them 
to  the  wife  of  her  parish  clergyman  for  distribu- 
tion among  the  needy.  She  worked  steadily  at  them 
after  the  short  doze  which  followed  tea,  while  Edith 
read  aloud  to  her,  but  apart  from  this  and  the  half- 
crowns  which  she  so  regularly  put  into  the  offertory- 
plate,  the  consideration  of  the  poor  and  needy  did 
not  practically  concern  her,  though  she  much  dis- 
liked seeing  tramps  and  beggars  on  the  road.  For 
the  rest,  a  quiet  thankfulness,  except  when  she  had 
rheumatism,  glowed  mildly  in  her  soul  for  all  the 
blessings  of  this  life  which  she  so  abundantly  en- 
joyed, and  even  when  she  had  rheumatism  she  was 
never  vehement  against  Providence.  She  was  quite 
certain,  indeed,  that  Providence  took  the  greatest 
care  of  her,  and  she  followed  that  example  by  tak- 
ing the  greatest  care  of  herself,  feeling  it  a  duty  to 
do  so.  For  these  attentions  she  returned  thanks 
every  morning  and  evening  in  her  bedroom,  and  in 
church  on  Sunday  morning,  and  also  frequently  in 
the  evening,  if  fine.    When  rheumatism  troubled  her 


64  ARUNDEL 

she  added  a  petition  on  the  subject  and  went  to 
Bath.  Never  since  her  earliest  days  had  she  felt 
the  slightest  doubts  with  regard  to  the  religion  that 
was  hers,  and  dogma  she  swallowed  whole,  like  a 
pill.  Her  father  had  been  a  Canon  of  Salisbury,  and 
in  the  fourth  and  least-used  sitting-room  in  the 
house,  where  smoking  was  permitted  if  gentlemen 
were  staying  with  her,  was  a  glass-fronted  bookcase 
in  which  were  four  volumes  of  his  somewhat  con- 
troversial sermons.  These  she  sometimes  read  to 
herself  on  wet  Sunday  evenings,  if  Edith  chanced  to 
have  a  sore  throat.  Her  evening  doze  usually  suc- 
ceeded this  study.  But  to  say  that  the  principles 
of  a  Christian  life  were  alien  to  her  would  be  libel- 
lous, since,  though  neither  devout  nor  ascetic,  she 
was  kind,  especially  when  it  involved  no  self-sacri- 
fice, she  was  truthful,  she  was  a  complete  stranger 
to  envy,  slander,  or  malice,  and  was  quite  unvexed 
by  any  doubts  concerning  the  wisdom  and  benevo- 
lence of  the  Providence  in  which  she  trusted  as 
firmly  as  she  trusted  in  aspirin  and  Bath  for  her 
rheumatism. 

At  the  church  in  which  she  was  so  regular  an  at- 
tendant, she  found  both  doctrine  and  ritual  com- 
pletely to  her  mind,  even  as  it  was  to  the  mind  of  the 
comfortable  and  prosperous  inhabitants  of  Heath- 
moor  generally.  No  litany  ever  lifted  up  its  la- 
mentable petitions  there,  the  hymns  were  always  of 
a  bright  and  jovial  order,  unless,  as  in  Lent,  bright- 
ness was  liturgically  impossible,  and  the  vicar  even 
then  made  a  habit  of  preaching  delightfully  short 
and  encouraging  sermons  about  the  Christian  duty 
of  appreciating  all  that  was  agreeable  in  life,  and 
told  his  congregation  that  it  was  far  more  important 
to  face  the  future  with  a  cheerful  heart  than  to 
turn  a  regretful  eye  towards  the  sins  and  omissions 
of  the  past.    To  this  advice  Mrs.  Hancock  found  it 


COMFORTABLE  MRS.  HANCOCK    65 

both  her  pleasure  and  her  duty  to  conform,  and, 
indeed,  with  her  excellent  health,  her  four  thousand 
pounds  a  year,  and  her  household  of  admirable  ser- 
vants, it  was  not  difficult  to  face  the  future  with 
smiling  equanimity.  And  though,  again,  it  would 
have  been  libellous  to  call  her  pharisaical,  for  she 
was  not  the  least  complacent  in  her  estimate  of 
herself,  she  would  have  experienced  considerable  dif- 
ficulty in  making  any  sort  of  catalogue  of  her  mis- 
doings. Besides,  as  Mr.  Martin  distinctly  told  them, 
it  was  mere  morbidity  to  dwell  among  the  broken 
promises  of  the  past.  "Far  better,  dear  friends,  to 
be  up  and  doing  in  the  glorious  sunlight  of  a  new 
day.  Sufficient,  may  we  not  truly  say,  to  the  day 
is  the  good  thereof.  Let  that  be  our  motto  for 
the  week.    And  now." 

And  the  refreshed  and  convinced  congregation 
poured  thankful  half-crowns  into  the  velvet  col- 
lecting pouches,  and  themselves  into  the  glorious 
sunlight. 

Edward  Holroyd,  from  the  bow-window  of  his 
dining-room  next  door — like  most  of  the  inhabitants 
of  Heathmoor  he  habitually  sat  in  his  dining-room 
after  breakfast  when  not  leaving  for  the  City  by 
the  9.6  a.m.  train — saw  the  Hancocks'  car  glide 
churchwards  at  ten  minutes  to  eleven,  and  then 
proceeded  to  his  drawing-room  to  practise  on  his 
piano  with  slightly  agitated  hands.  The  agitation 
was  partly  due  to  the  extraordinary  number  of 
accidentals  which  Chopin  chose  to  put  into  the 
Eleventh  Etude,  partly  to  a  more  intimate  cause, 
connected  with  the  invitation  he  had  just  accepted. 
For  some  months  now — in  fact,  ever  since  his  twen- 
ty-seventh birthday — he  had  made  up  his  mind  that 
it  was  time  to  get  married,  and  had  held  himself 
in  a  position  of  almost  pathetic  eagerness — like  a 
man  crouching  for  the  sprint,  waiting  the  signal  of 


66  ARUNDEL 

the  pistol — to  fall  in  love.  But  either  the  pre- 
ordained maiden  or  some  psychical  defect  in  himself 
had  been  lacking,  and  he  had  long  been  wondering  if 
there  was  to  be  any  pistol  at  all.  If  not,  it  was  idle 
to  maintain  himself  in  the  tense,  crouching  strain. 
But  he  had  no  doubts  whatever  that  he  wished  to 
be  married,  and  that  Mrs.  Hancock — when  he  al- 
lowed himself  for  a  moment  to  face  a  slightly  em- 
barrassing question — wished  liim  to  be  married,  too. 
She  constantly  turned  his  head  in  one  particular 
direction,  and  that  direction  showed  him,  in  house- 
agents'  phrase,  a  very  pleasing  prospect,  which,  with- 
out complacency,  he  believed  smiled  on  him  with 
an  open  and  even  affectionate  regard.  But  he  won- 
dered at  himself  for  not  being  of  a  livQlier  eager- 
ness in  emotional  matters,  for  he  brought  to  the 
vocations  and  avocations  of  his  busy  and  cheerful 
life  a  fund  of  enthusiasm  which  was  of  more  than 
normal  intensity.  Like  the  majority  of  the  males  of 
Heathmoor,  he  rounded  off  days  of  strenuous  work 
in  the  City  with  strenuous  amusements,  and  with 
croquet  in  summer  and  bridge  and  piano-playing 
in  the  winter,  filled  up  to  the  brim  the  hours  be- 
tween the  arrival  of  the  evening  train  and  bedtime. 
But  the  faiUire  of  the  inevitable  and  unique  She 
to  put  in  an  appearance  and  bewitch  the  eyes  and 
the  heart  which  were  so  eager  to  be  spellbound  was 
disconcerting.  For  years  he  had  looked  for  her,  for 
years  he  had  missed  her,  and  since  his  twenty-sev- 
enth birthday  he  had  begun  to  determine  to  do  with- 
out her.  He  accepted  the  limitations,  namely,  his 
own  inability  to  fall  in  love,  for  which  he  could  not 
devise  a  cure,  and  was  prepared  to  close  gratefully 
with  so  pleasant  and  attractive  an  arrangement  as 
he  believed  to  be  open  to  him.  He  liked  and  ad- 
mired Edith,  her  firm  and  comely  face,  her  serene 
content,  her  quiet  capable  ways.    She  was  as  fond 


COMFORTABLE  MRS.  HANCOCK     67 

of  croquet  and  bridge  as  liimself,  and — this  was  a 
larger  testimonial  than  he  knew — really  enjoyed  his 
piano-playing.  And  if  the  lightnings  and  thunders 
of  romance  roused  no  reverberating  glories  in  his 
heart,  it  must  be  remembered  that  romance  is  a 
shy  rare  bird,  coming  not  to  nest  under  every  eave, 
and  that  there  would  be  a  very  sensible  diminution 
in  marriage  fees  if  every  man  delayed  matrimony 
until  the  blinding  ecstatic  light  fell  upon  his  en- 
raptured eyes. 

It  is  clear  "what  was  the  matter,"  in  medical 
phrase,  with  this  handsome  and  lively  young  man. 
At  heart  he  was  an  idealist,  but  one  ready  to  capitu- 
late, to  surrender  to  beleaguering  common  sense. 
He  was  ready  to  sacrifice  his  dreams,  a  somewhat 
serious  offence  in  a  world  where  true  dreamers  are 
so  rare.  By  nature  he  was  a  true  dreamer,  but  ac- 
cumulating wealth  and  the  dense  comfort  of  life 
at  Heathmoor  had  done  much  to  rouse  him,  though 
in  music  he  still  saw  the  fiery  fabric,  unsubstantial 
and  receding.  In  performance  he  was  quite  execra- 
ble, in  miagination  of  the  highest  calibre.  Through 
all  his  patient  and  heavy  strumming  he  heard  the 
singing  of  the  immortal  bird,  and  even  his  reputation 
as  a  piano-player  in  the  drawing-rooms  of  Heath- 
moor  had  not  made  him  lose  his  profound  apprecia- 
tion of  his  own  mcompetence.  But  in  music  alone 
was  he  worthy  any  more  of  the  title  of  a  dreamer; 
to-day  he  stood  pen  in  hand  ready  to  sign  the  great- 
est capitulation  to  common  sense  that  a  man  is  ever 
called  upon  to  make,  for  he  was  ready  to  give  up  the 
image  of  the  invisible  conjectured  She  that  stood 
faintly  gliimnering  in  the  inmost  chamber  of  his 
heart  and  throw  it  open  for  a  charming  enemy  to 
enter. 

It  was  not  long  before  he  gave  up  his  attempts 
on  the  piano,  for  this  invitation  to  lunch  next  door 


68  ARUNDEL 

had  caused  him  to  take  a  definite  resolution  which 
upset  all  steadiness  and  concentration,  and,  light- 
ing a  pipe,  he  strolled  out  into  his  garden.  He  had 
not  room  there  for  a  full-sized  croquet  lawn,  and 
had  contented  himself  with  three  or  four  hoops  of 
ultra-championship  narrowness,  through  which,  with 
the  fervour  of  the  true  artist,  he  was  accustomed  to 
practise  various  awkward  hazards.  But  here,  again, 
as  by  the  piano,  desire  failed,  and,  with  an  extin- 
guished pipe,  he  sat  down  on  a  garden-seat,  and 
experienced  a  sharp  attack  of  spurious  middle-age, 
such  as  is  incidental  to  youth,  regretting,  as  youth 
does,  the  advent  of  the  middle-age,  which  in  reality 
is  yet  far  distant.  He  had  completely  made  up  his 
mind  to  propose  to  Edith  that  day,  believing,  with- 
out coxcombry,  that  he  would  be  accepted,  believing 
also  that  the  future  thus  held  for  him  many  years 
of  health  and  happiness,  with  the  addition,  no  slight 
one,  of  a  charming  and  inalienable  companion  whom 
he  liked  and  admired.  Yet  something,  the  potenti- 
ality of  the  fire  which  had  never  yet  been  lit  in  him, 
caused  him  an  infinite  and  secret  regret  for  the  step 
which  was  now  as  good  as  taken.  He  longed  for 
something  he  had  never  experienced,  for  something 
of  which  he  had  no  real  conception,  but  of  which 
he  felt  himself  capable,  for,  as  the  flint  owns  fire 
in  its  heart,  but  must  wait  to  be  struck,  he  felt  that 
his  true  destiny  was  not  to  be  but  a  stone  to  mend 
a  road,  or,  at  the  best,  to  be  mortared  into  a  house- 
wall,  with  all  his  fiery  seed  slumbering  within  him. 
Yet  .  .  .  what  if  there  was  no  fire  there  at  all?  He 
had  long  held  himself  ready,  aching,  you  might 
say,  for  the  blow  that  should  evoke  it,  and  none 
had  struck  him  into  blaze. 

It  was  not  surprising  that  the  approaching  motor- 
drive  to  Bath  loomed  conversationally  large  at  lunch, 
and  Edward  proved  weighty  in  debate.    He  had  a 


COMFORTABLE  MRS.  HANCOCK    69 

sharp,  decisive  habit  in  social  affairs;  his  small 
change  of  talk  was  bright  and  fresh  from  the  mint, 
and  seemed  a  faithful  index  to  his  keen  face  and 
wiry,  assertive  hair, 

"Quite  right  not  to  break  the  journey,  Mrs.  Han- 
cock," he  said.  "Most  country  hotels  consist  of 
feather-beds,  fish  with  brown  sauce,  and  windows 
over  a  stable-yard.  But  if  you  do  it  in  one  journey, 
get  most  of  it  over  before  lunch.  I  should  start 
by  ten  at  the  latest." 

Mrs.  Hancock  consulted  a  railway  time-table. 

"Then  Filson  will  have  to  be  finished  with  her 
packing  at  half-past  nine,"  she  said.  "The  heavy 
luggage  must  go  to  the  station  in  the  car  before  we 
start." 

"Have  it  sent  in  a  cab  afterwards,"  suggested 
Holroyd. 

Mrs.  Hancock  pondered  over  this. 

"I  don't  think  I  should  like  that,  should  I,  Edith?" 
she  said.  "I  should  prefer  to  see  it  actually  leave 
the  house.  Or  can  I  trust  Lind  and  Filson?  Edith, 
dear,  remember  to  remind  me  to  take  the  patience 
cards  in  my  small  bag.  There  is  room  to  lay  out  a 
patience  on  the  folding-table  in  the  car,  and  it  will 
help  to  pass  the  time." 

"And  have  you  got  footstools?"  asked  Edward. 

Over  Mrs.  Hancock's  face  there  spread  a  smile 
like  the  coming  of  dawn.  Here  was  a  comfort  that 
had  never  occurred  to  her. 

"What  a  good  idea!"  she  said.  "I  have  often  felt 
a  little  strained  and  uncomfortable  in  the  knees 
when  motoring  for  more  than  an  hour  or  two.  Very 
likely  it  was  just  the  want  of  a  footstool.  Remind 
me  to  take  out  my  bedroom  footstool  in  the  car  this 
afternoon,  Edith,  to  see  if  it  is  the  right  height.  You 
are  helpful,  Mr.  Holroyd.  I  never  thought  of  a  foot- 
stool." 


70  ARUNDEL 

His  next  half-dozen  suggestions,  however,  showed 
that  Mrs.  Hancock  had  thought  of  a  good  deal  al- 
ready, including  a  Thermos  flask  of  cofifee,  a  contour 
map  of  the  country,  and  a  stylograph  pen  in  case 
she  found  that  she  had  left  anything  behind,  and 
wanted  to  write  a  postcard  en  route.  Postcards  she 
always  carried  in  a  green  morocco  writing-case. 

"Filson  must  take  a  postcard,  too,"  she  said, 
"ready  directed  to  Lind,  in  case  anythmg  goes  wrong 
with  the  luggage.  That  is  a  good  idea.  She  will 
be  very  comfortable,  do  you  not  think,  Mr.  Holroyd, 
in  a  nice  third-class  compartment  for  ladies  only. 
I  am  often  tempted  to  go  third-class  myself,  when 
I  see  how  cheap  and  comfortable  it  is."    , 

Edward  felt  quite  certain  that  this  was  a  tempta- 
tion to  which  ]\Irs.  Hancock  had  never  yielded,  and 
lunch  proceeded  in  silence  for  a  few  moments.  Then, 
since  nobody  was  able  to  make  any  further  sugges- 
tion whatever  which  could  lead  to  additional  com- 
fort or  security  on  this  momentous  journey,-  Mrs. 
Hancock  allowed  herself  to  be  drawn  into  other 
topics,  still  not  unconnected  with  Bath,  such  as  the 
efficacy  of  the  waters,  and  the  steepness  of  the  hills 
which  surrounded  it,  which,  however,  with  Denton's 
careful  driving  and  the  new  brakes  she  had  had 
fitted  to  her  car,  presented  no  unmanning  terrors. 

"I  shall  be  there,"  she  said,  "exactly  four  weeks, 
so  as  to  get  back  early  in  June.  Bath  is  very  hot 
in  the  summer,  but  I  do  not  mind  that,  and  the 
hotel  rates  are  more  reasonable  then.  After  that  we 
shall  be  occupied,  for  my  niece,  Elizabeth  Fanshawe, 
will  arrive  almost  as  soon  as  I  return.  She  will  be 
with  me  till  she  goes  back  to  India  to  her  father  in 
October." 

Out  of  the  depths  of  half -forgotten  memories  an 
image,  quite  vague  and  insignificant,  broke  the  sur- 
face of  Holroyd's  mind. 


COMFORTABLE  MRS.  HANCOCK    71 

"Was  she  not  with  you  two  years  ago?"  he  asked. 
"A  tall,  dark  girl  with  black  hair." 

"Fancy  your  remembering  her!  I  so  envy  a  good 
memory.  Edith,  dear,  remind  me  to  get  the  piano 
tuned.  I  will  write  from  Bath.  Elizabeth  is  for  ever 
at  the  piano  now,  so  my  brother  tells  me.  She  will 
enjoy  hearing  you  play,  Mr.  Holroyd.  Well,  if 
everybody  has  finished,  I  am  sure  you  will  like  to 
have  a  cigarette  in  the  garden.  Edith  will  take 
you  out  and  show  you  the  tuHps." 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  this  arrangement 
was  to  be  dignified  into  the  name  of  manoeuvre  on 
Mrs.  Hancock's  part,  except  in  so  far  that  after  lunch 
she  liked  to  skim  the  larger  paragraphs  of  the  Morn- 
ing Post,  comfortably  reclining  on  the  sofa  in  her 
private  sitting-room.  She  was  not  a  person  of  sub- 
tle perceptions,  and  it  had  certainly  never  occurred 
to  her  that  Holroyd  had  come  to  lunch  that  day 
with  his  purpose  formed;  she  only  wanted  to  read 
the  Morning  Post,  and,  as  usual,  to  throw  him  and 
Edith  together.  As  for  Edith,  she  had  been  quite 
prepared  a  dozen  times  during  this  last  month  to 
listen  with  satisfaction  to  his  declaration,  and  to 
give  him  an  amiable  affirmative  on  the  earliest  pos- 
sible occasion.  Each  time  that  her  mother  ar- 
ranged some  similar  little  tete-a-tete  for  them  she 
felt  a  slight  but  pleasurable  tremor  of  excitement, 
but  was  never  in  the  least  cast  down  when  it  proved 
that  her  anticipations  were  premature.  She  was 
perfectly  aware  of  her  mother's  approval,  and  it 
only  remained  to  give  voice  to  her  own.  She  had 
long  ago  made  up  her  mind  that  she  would  sooner 
marry  than  remain  single,  and  she  had  never 
dreamed  or  desired  that  it  should  be  any  other  man 
than  this  who  should  conduct  her  to  the  goal  of  her 
wishes.  That  she  was  in  any  degree  in  love  with 
him — if  the  phrase  connotes  anything  luminous  or 


72  ARUNDEL 

tumultuous — it  would  be  idle  to  assert;  but  equally- 
idle  would  it  be  to  deny  that,  according  to  the  man- 
ner of  her  aspirations,  he  seemed  to  her  an  ideal 
husband.  For  ten  adolescent  years — for  she  was  now 
twenty-four — she  had  lived  in  the  stifling  and  soul- 
quelling  comfort  of  her  mother's  house,  and  it  would 
have  been  strange  if  the  dead  calm  and  propriety 
of  her  surroundings  had  not  bred  in  her  a  corre- 
sponding immobility  of  the  emotions,  for  there  is 
something  chameleon-like  in  the  spirit  of  every  girl 
not  powerfully  vitalized;  it  assimilates  itself  to  its 
surroundings,  and  custom  and  usage  limn  the  hues, 
which  at  first  are  superficial  and  evanescent,  into 
stains  of  permanent  colour.  Passion  and  deep  feel- 
ing, so  far  from  entering  into  Edith  herself,  had 
never  even  exhibited  themselves  in  the  confines  of 
her  horizons;  she  had  neither  experienced  them  nor 
seen  others  in  their  grip.  But  she  thought — indeed, 
she  was  certain — that  she  would  like  to  be  mistress  in 
the  house  where  Edward  Holroyd  was  master.  She 
felt  sure  she  could  make  herself  and  him  very  com- 
fortable. 

She  went  out,  hatless  like  him,  into  the  warm 
bath  of  sun  and  south-west  wind,  and  they  passed 
side  by  side  up  the  weedless  garden-path.  All  Na- 
ture, bees  and  bright-eyed  birds  and  budding  flow- 
ers, was  busy  with  the  great  festival  of  spring  and 
mating-time;  nothing  was  barren  but  the  salted 
weedless  path,  so  carefully  defertilized.  The  tulips 
were  a  brave  show,  and  in  their  deep  bed  below  the 
paling  a  border  of  wallflowers  spun  a  web  of  warm, 
inefi'able  fragrance.  Ellis,  returned  from  his  mid- 
day hour,  was  still  engaged  with  the  clicking  mow- 
ing machine  on  the  velvet-napped  lawn,  and  they 
went  on  farther  till  the  gravel  of  the  paths  of  the 
flower-garden  was  exchanged  for  the  cinders  of  the 
kitchen  patch,  and  the  hedge  of  espaliers  hid  them 


COMFORTABLE  MRS.  HANCOCK    73 

from  the  house.  Then  he  stopped,  and  a  moment 
afterwards  she  also,  smoothing  into  place  a  braid  of 
her  bright  brown  hair.  And  without  agitation  came 
the  question,  without  agitation  the  reply.  Indeed, 
there  was  nothing  for  two  sensible  young  people  to 
be  agitated  about.  Each  was  fond  of  the  other, 
neither  had  seen  any  one  else  more  desirable,  and 
over  the  hearts  of  each  lay  thick  the  cobwebs  of 
comfort  and  motor-cars  and  prosperous  affairs  and 
unimpassioned  content.  Only  as  he  spoke  he  felt 
some  vague  soul-eclipse,  some  dispersal  of  a  dream. 

Then  he  drew  her  towards  him  and  kissed  her, 
and  for  one  moment  below  the  cobwebs  in  her 
heart  something  stirred,  ever  so  faintly,  ever  so 
remotely,  connected  with  the  sHght  roughness  of 
his  close-shaven  face,  with  the  faint  scent  of  soap, 
of  cigarette.    But  it  did  not  embarrass  her. 

They  stood  there  for  a  moment  looking  into  each 
other's  faces,  as  if  expecting  something  new,  some- 
thing revealed. 

"Shall  we  tell  your  mother  now?"  he  asked. 

Still  she  looked  at  him ;  he  was  not  quite  the  same 
as  he  had  been  before. 

"Oh,  in  a  minute  or  two,"  she  said. 

Suddenly  he   felt   that  he  had   to   stir  himself 

somehow  into  greater  tenderness,  greater But 

he  felt  disappointed;  it  had  all  been  exactly  as  he 
had  imagined. 

"I  am  very  happy,"  he  said.  "I  have  thought 
about  this  moment  so  much,  Edith." 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  used  her  name. 

"Edward!"  she  said,  looking  straight  at  him. 
"Edward!  No,  I  don't  think  I  shall  call  you  Ed- 
ward.    I  must  have  a  name  of  ray  own  for  you." 

At  the  moment  the  sound  of  a  gong  from  within 
the  house  droned  along  the  garden. 

"The  motor  is  round,"  she  said. 


74  ARUNDEL 

This  time  it  was  he  who  delayed,  though  without 
passion, 

"Your  mother  will  not  mind  waiting  a  nainute,"  he 
said. 

"No.    What  else  have  you  to  say  to  me?" 

"Everything;  nothing." 

She  laughed. 

"There  is  not  time  for  the  one,"  she  said,  "and 
no  time  is  required  for  the  other.  Besides,  all  the 
time  that  there  is  is  ours  now." 

In  all  her  life  she  had  never  phrased  a  sentence 
so  neat,  so  nearly  epigrammatic.  Its  briskness  was 
the  fruit  of  the  stimulus  that  had  come  to  her. 

They  delayed  no  furtlier.  but  went  ba^k  to  the 
house,  where  Mrs.  Hancock  was  already  waiting. 
She  did  not  attempt  to  appear  surprised  at  their 
news,  but,  placidly  dehghted  at  it.  kissed  them  both, 
and  took  it  for  granted  that  Edward  would  come 
in  to  dine  with  them  that  evening.  Then,  since  there 
was  no  use  in  vain  repetitions,  she  reverted  to  the 
topic  which  had  to  be  considered  at  once. 

"Let  me  see,"  she  said.  "I  think  the  motor  is 
round,  anrl  Filson  has  brought  down  the  footstool 
from  my  bedroom  to  see  if  it  is  the  right  height.  A 
quarter  to  eight,  then,  dear  Edward,  to-night;  we 
shall  be  quite  alone,  and  if  you  will  come  in  half 
an  hour  sooner  I  have  no  doubt  that  you  will  find 
my  darling  dressed  and  waiting  to  talk  to  you.  Fancy 
what  a  lot  you  will  have  to  say  to  each  other  now! 
And  then,  after  dinner,  as  you  are  drinking  your 
glass  of  port,  I  shall  claim  you  for  a  little  conver- 
sation, while  we  send  Edith  to  wait  in  the  draw- 
ing-room. Oh,  I  see  you  have  brought  the  footstool 
from  the  spare  room  as  well,  Filson.  That  was  well 
thought  of,  as  they  are  of  different  heights,  and  one 
might  suit  if  the  other  did  not.  Let  me  get  in,  and 
see  which  suits  me  best.  .  .  .  Now  try  them  one  on 


COMFORTABLE  MRS.  HANCOCK    75 

top  of  the  other,  Filson.  Well,  really  I  think  that 
is  the  most  comfortable  of  all.  Edith,  dear,  are  you 
ready?  And  I  have  brought  down  my  patience 
cards,  and  if  I  put  them  into  the  pocket  under  the 
window  at  once  I  can  dismiss  them  from  my  mind. 
There!  A  quarter-past  seven,  then,  dear  Edward, 
fur  a  chat  before  dinner.  Yes,  leave  the  footstools 
in  the  car,  Filson,  and  we  will  measure  the  height 
when  I  come  back." 

Denton  was  standing  with  the  door  knob  in  his 
hand,  waiting  for  orders. 

"You  might  take  us  first  to  Slough,  Denton,"  she 
said,  "so  that  we  shall  see  what  the  road  is  like 
before  we  join  the  Bath  road  next  week,  and  then 
we  can  go  through  the  Beeches.  We  are  ten  minutes 
late  in  starting,  but  if  we  are  a  little  late  for  tea  it 
won't  matter  for  once  in  a  way.  Tell  IVIrs.  Williams, 
Lind,  that  we  may  be  t^n  minutes  late  for  tea." 

Mrs.  Hancock  habitually  wore  a  perfectly  natu- 
ral and  amiable  smile  on  her  pleasant  face,  except 
when  her  rheumatism  gave  her  an  exceptional 
twinge,  or,  more  exceptionally  yet,  Mrs.  Williams 
was  not  quite  up  to  the  mark.  To-day  the  dis- 
covery of  the  footstools  and  Edith's  engagement 
seemed  to  her  to  be  touching  examples  of  the  care 
of  Providence,  and  she  was  beamingly  conscious  of 
the  variety  of  pleasant  objects  and  topics  in  the 
world.  She  laid  her  hand  in  Edith's  as  the  car 
started. 

"And  now  I  want  to  hear  all — all  about  it,  dar- 
ling," she  said.  "Oh,  look,  there  are  two  magpies! 
Is  not  that  lucky?  And  will  you  let  your  window 
quite  down,  dear?  It  is  so  warm  and  pleasant  this 
afternoon.  I  will  have  mine  just  half-way  up. 
There!  That  is  nice!  And  now  I  want  to  hear  aU 
about  it." 


76  ARUNDEL 

Edith  returned  the  afifectionate  pressure  of  her 
mother's  hand, 

"It  was  all  so  sudden,  mother,"  she  said,  "and 
yet  I  was  not  at  all  startled.  He — Edward  stopped 
when  we  reached  the  kitchen-garden,  and  so  I 
stopped,  too.  And,  without  any  speeches,  he  just 
asked  me,  and  I  said  'Yes'  at  once,  as  I  had  always 
meant  to.  And  then  he  said  he  was  very  happy, 
and  kissed  me." 

Mrs.  Hancock  thoup;ht  that  Denton  was  driving 
a  little  too  fast,  as  if  he  meant  to  make  up  the  lost 
ten  minutes,  but  she  checked  herself  from  calling 
down  the  tube  to  him. 

"My  dearest!"  she  said.  "You  will  never  for- 
get the  first  kiss  given  you  by  the  man  who  loves 
you.     Oh,  what  a  jolt!" 

The  jolt  decided  her,  and  she  called  to  Denton 
not  to  go  quite  so  fast.  Then  she  pressed  Edith's 
hand  again. 

"Tell  me  more,  dear,"  she  said.  "Had  you  ex- 
pected it  at  all?" 

Edith  looked  at  her  with  complete  candour. 

"Oh,  yes!"  she  said.  "And  that  is  why  it  seemed 
so  natural  when  it  came." 

The  faintest  flush  glowed  on  her  face. 

"But  I  never  liked  him  so  much  before  as  when 
he  kissed  me,"  she  said.  "It  did  not  make  me  feel 
at  all  awkward.  I  used  to  think  that  if  such  a  thing 
ever  happened  to  me  I  should  not  know  which  way 
to  look.  But  it  all  seemed  quite  natural.  Our  tastes 
agree  in  so  many  things,  too — music  and  croquet  and 
so  on.    That  is  a  good  thing,  is  it  not?" 

Mrs.  Hancock  beamed  again. 

"My  dear,  of  course."  she  said.  "Community  of 
taste  is  half  the" — battle,  she  was  going  to  say — 
"half  the  strength  and  joy  of  marriage.  Oh,  here 
we  are  in  Slough  already.    Turn  to  the  right,  Den- 


COMFORTABLE  INIRS.  HANCOCK    77 

ton,  and  go  through  Burnham  Beeches.  Yes,  what 
games  of  croquet  you  will  have,  and  what  music. 
I  will  get  a  gate  made  in  the  paling  between  his 
garden  and  ours,  so  that  there  will  be  no  need  to 
go  round  by  the  front  door  and  ring  the  bell.  I 
dare  say  EHis  could  do  it,  or  even  if  I  had  to  get  a 
carpenter  it  would  be  but  a  trifle  anyhow,  and  I 
certainly  shall  not  permit  Edward  to  pay  half  of 
it,  however  much  he  may  insist.  Bless  you,  my 
darling!  I  feel  so  happy  and  contented  about  it. 
Look,  there  is  a  Great  Western  express.  What  a 
pace  they  go!" 

Edith  usually  gave  excellent  attention  to  the 
■various  bright  objects  which  continually  caught  and 
pleased  her  mother's  eye.  But  to-day  she  wan- 
dered, or  rather,  did  not  wander. 

"It  was  wonderful,"  she  said.    "I  hadn't  guessed." 

But  her  mother  had  other  things  as  well  to  think 
about. 

"Edward  was  quite  right,"  she  said.  "A  footstool, 
or  rather  one  on  top  of  another,  makes  all  the  dif- 
ference. I  shall  order  a  very  thick  one  from  the 
stores,  sending  the  height  I  require.  And  I  think  I 
must  give  a  little  dinner-party  before  I  go  to  Bath, 
dear,  just  to  tell  a  few  friends  our  news.  I  wish 
the  asparagus  was  a  little  more  forward.  How 
lovely  the  beeches  are!  And  look  at  those  sweet 
little  birds!  Are  they  thrushes,  I  wonder,  or  what? 
And  what  do  you  guess  they  are  saying  to  each 
other?  I  will  ask  Mr.  Beaumont,  I  think,  and  the 
Martins  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dobbs.  It  will  not  do  to 
have  it  on  Wednesday  if  we  start  early  on  Thurs- 
day, as  we  shall  find  plenty  of  little  jobs  on  the 
last  evening,  and  it  will  be  wise  to  get  to  bed  early 
if  we  are  to  motor  all  next  day.  It  must  be  Tues- 
day. Perhaps  the  asparagus  will  have  come  popping 
up,  if  the  hot  weather  holds.     Darling,  I  cannot 


78  ARUNDEL 

tell  you  how  pleased  I  am!  And  what  an  excite- 
ment for  your  cousin  Elizabeth.  Fancy  if  she  was 
a  bridesmaid  before  she  went  back  to  India!  What 
a  lot  she  would  have  to  tell  to  Uncle  Robert!  We 
shall  soon  have  to  begin  to  think  when  it  is  to  be." 

Mrs.  Hancock  said  no  more  on  this  subject,  for 
the  fact  was  that  she  had  not  made  up  her  mind 
when  she  wished  the  marriage  to  take  place.  She 
had  vaguely  contemplated  going  to  Egypt  with  her 
daughter  next  winter,  and  she  could  not  offhand 
balance  the  disadvantages  of  going  alone  (in  case 
she  settled  that  Edith  should  be  married  first),  with 
the  advantage  of  saving  the  expenses  of  taking  her. 
Then  a  brilliant  possibility  struck  her.^  Edward 
might  be  induced  to  come  too,  in  whicli  case  the 
marriage  must  certainly  take  place  first.  Since  then 
he  would,  of  course,  pay  for  E(hth.  But  all  this  re- 
quired consideration. 

Indeed,  there  were  many  things  which  would  need 
a  great  deal  of  careful  thought.  Chief  among  them, 
already  blotting  out  the  beauty  of  the  beeches,  was 
the  whole  question  of  settlements.  Edith  would  nat- 
urally inherit  the  whole  of  her  mother's  money  at 
her  death  (an  event  to  be  contemplated  with  only 
the  most  distant  recognition),  and  Mrs.  Hancock  had 
no  intention  of  making  serious  inroads  into  her  in- 
come, which,  handsome  as  it  was,  did  not  more  than 
provide  her  with  everything  she  wanted,  and  en- 
able her  to  put  by  a  nice  round  sum  of  money  every 
year.  This  she  was  so  much  accustomed  to  do  that 
it  was  unreasonable  to  expect  her  at  her  age  to  break 
so  prudent  and  long-estabhshed  a  habit.  But  all  this 
must  depend  to  some  extent  on  Edward's  attituae 
and  expectations.  She  had  no  doubt  that,  for  his 
part,  he  would  do  all  that  was  generous,  which 
would  obviate  the  necessity  of  being  very  open- 
handed  herself.    Living  next  door,  Edith  would  be 


COMFORTABLE  MRS.  HANCOCK    79 

able  to  come  in  to  lunch  every  day  when  he  was 
in  the  City,  and  enjoy  her  motor-drive,  as  usual, 
without  any  expense.  The  croquet-lawn,  too,  would 
be  quite  at  Edward's  disposal.  .  .  .  Practically,  she 
was  presenting  the  young  couple  with  a  motor-car, 
a  lunch  daily,  and  a  croquet-lawn,  kept  in  excellent 
order  by  Ellis,  straight  away.  Then  there  were  wed- 
ding presents  to  be  thought  of,  which  would  be  a 
great  expense;  and  Elizabeth  was  going  to  spend 
four  months  at  least  with  her — an  additional  drain. 
.  .  .  Mrs.  Hancock  began  to  feel  quite  worried  and 
pressed  for  money,  as  she  was  accustomed  to  do 
when,  having  made  some  considerable  investment, 
she  found  she  had  not  more  than  two  or  three  hun- 
dred pounds  lying  at  her  bank. 

Edward  arrived,  as  had  been  already  agreed,  half 
an  hour  before  dinner,  and  found  Edith,  already 
dressed,  waiting  for  a  lover's  talk  in  the  drawing- 
room.  Lind  had  seen  that  the  housemaids  had  com- 
pleted the  evening  toilet  of  the  room,  and  strict 
injunctions  had  been  issued  that  the  two  were  not 
to  be  disturbed.  Edward  kissed  her  again  as  soon 
as  they  were  left  alone,  but  after  that  no  interrup- 
tion, however  sudden,  would  have  surprised  a  fiery 
scene.  Both  were  placid,  content,  happy,  undis- 
turbed by  strong  emotion,  and  unembarrassed  by  its 
absence.  But  though  as  yet  no  surface  signs  gave 
indication,  the  evenly  hung  balance  had  begun  to 
quiver.  Once  more  his  kiss  woke  in  her  a  tremor  of 
dim  agitation,  while  inwardly  he  wondered,  though 
as  yet  unembarrassed,  at  his  own  want  of  emotion. 
Not  for  a  moment  did  he  regret  what  he  had  done; 
he  was  happy  in  the  event  of  the  day,  but  only  a 
little  surprised,  a  little  scornful  of  himself  for  find- 
ing that  he  felt  so  precisely  as  he  had  anticipated 
that  he  would  feel.  He  had  not  expected  to  be 
inflamed  with  sudden  rapture,  and  was  not.    Dimly 


80  ARUNDEL 

he  saw  that  the  adventure  to  which  they  were  com- 
mitted promised  more  to  her  than  it  did  to  him,  and 
he  was  ashamed  of  that.  Yet  to  him  it  had  its  defi- 
nite promise.  This  charming  girl  whom  he  hked, 
whom  he  admired,  with  whom  he  was  in  sympathy, 
had  consented  to  share  his  hfe  with  him.  To  no 
one  would  he  have  so  wilhngly  offered  himself  as  to 
her  who  had  so  willingly  accepted  him.  His  horizon, 
such  as  it  was.  was  filled  with  her,  .  .  .  Only  he 
wondered,  and  that  but  vaguely,  what  lay  over  that 
horizon's  rim.  But  he  found  no  difficulty  in  fram- 
ing his  lips  to  the  sense  and  nonsense  of  lover's 
talk. 

"I  have  been  too  happy  all  the  afternoon  to  do 
anything."  he  said.  "I  have  just  sat  and  strolled 
and  thought  and  waited." 

He  possessed  himself  of  her  hand,  and  told  him- 
self how  capable  it  was.  yet  how  soft,  how  pretty. 
Hitherto  he  had  not  given  many  thoughts  to  hands; 
now  he  realized  that  this  i)articular  one  concerned 
him.    He  admired  it;  it  was  strong  and  fine. 

"Ah,  I  am  having  a  bad  influence  upon  you  al- 
ready." said  she.  "if  I  make  you  idle." 

Suddenly  it  appeared  to  him  a  wonderful  and 
beautiful  thing  that  he  and  a  charming  girl  should 
be  saying  these  intimate  things,  and  his  response 
was  almost  eager. 

"I  was  only  idle  from  happiness."  he  said.  "Isn't 
it  all  wonderful?  Would  you  have  had  me  go  to 
tea  with  some  foolish  people  whom  I  did  not  want 
to  see?" 

"I  make  you  misanthropic  as  well.  But  I'm  not 
ashamed  if  I  make  you  happy." 

Something  stirred  within  her,  some  new  beating 
pulse.     She  came  a  little  closer  to  him. 

"You  looked  so  nice.  Edward,"  she  said,  "this 
afternoon,  when  you  stopped  and  spoke.     But  I 


COJNIFORTABLE  MRS.  HANCOCK     81 

couldn't  bear  your  tie.  I  shall  knit  you  one  the 
same  shade  of  brown  as  your  eyes.  I  will  do  it  at 
Bath." 

"It  is  a  great  nuisance  your  going  to  Bath,"  he 
said.  "Must  you  really  go?  I  want  you  here.  But 
the  tie  will  be  lovely." 

"Oh,  conceit,"  she  said,  "after  I  have  told  you 
it  is  to  be  the  colour  of  your  eyes." 

"I  forgot  that.  Aren't  you  being  rather  mali- 
cious?" 

He  looked  up  from  her  hand  to  her  face.  Never 
before  had  he  noticed  how  bright  and  abundant 
was  her  hair,  how  delicate  the  line  of  black  eyebrow. 
He  corrected  himself. 

"Malicious,  did  I  say?"  he  asked.  "I  meant — I 
meant  delicious.  And,  talking  of  eyes,  I  must  give 
you  a  turquoise  engagement  ring  for  the  day,  and 
a  sapphire  one  for  the  evening." 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  eyes?"  she  asked. 

"Everything.  Yours  are  light  blue  in  the  sun- 
light, and  dark  blue  at  night." 

"I  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  apologize.  But  I  don't 
think  I  shall;  it  wasn't  my  fault." 

"I  don't  insist."  said  he.  "But  I  insist  on  know- 
ing one  thing.     When?" 

"WTien?    What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked. 

"Look  me  in  the  face,  and  say  you  don't  know." 

Edith  laughed — a  happy  little  quiver  of  a  laugh 
that  she  had  never  heard  yet. 

"I  could  if  I  liked,"  she  said.  "But  I  don't  choose 
to.    If  you  mean " 

"That  is  exactly  what  I  mean." 

"How  can  you  know  before  I  have  said  it?"  she 
asked. 

"I  can.    Do  say  what  I  mean." 

Again  she  laughed. 

"When  shall  we  be  married  was  what  you  meant." 


82  ARUNDEL 

She  looked  extremely  pretty  and  rather  shy.  He 
had  never  noticed  before  how  fine  was  her  mouth, 
how  fine  and  fair  the  curve  of  her  upper  lip. 

"Yes,  sapphire  and  turquoise,"  he  said.  His  lips 
said  it,  his  brain  said  it. 

The  sonorous  tones  of  the  Chinese  gong,  manipu- 
lated with  so  cunning  a  crescendo  and  diminuendo 
by  Lind,  boomed  through  the  house.  Immediately 
afterwards  Mrs.  Hancock's  tread,  noticeably  heavy, 
was  heard  on  the  stairs.  She  hummed  some  little 
nameless  ditty  in  warning.     Edith  got  up. 

"Dinner  already?"  she  said. 

Edward,  perhaps,  was  not  quite  so  much  surprised 
at  the  swiftness  of  the  passage  of  this  half-hour. 

"Before  you  have  answered  my  question,"  he  said 
as  the  door  opened. 


CHAPTER   IV 

COMFORTABLE    PLANS 

Had  the  Day  of  Judjimcnt  or  any  other  devas- 
tating crisis  been  fixed  for  the  morrow,  that  would 
not  have  delayed  Mrs.  Hancock's  retirement  to  her 
bedroom  not  later  than  eleven  the  night  before. 
Sometimes,  and  not  rarely,  she  went  upstairs  at  half- 
past  ten  in  order  to  get  a  good  night  before  the  fa- 
tigues of  the  next  day,  whatever  they  might  hap- 
pen to  be,  but  in  no  case,  unless  by  chance  she  went 
to  the  theatre  in  town,  was  she  later  than  eleven. 
She  did  not  always  go  to  bed  immediately  on  arrival 
in  her  room;  frequently,  after  she  had  played  her 
invariable  game  of  patience,  while  Filson  brushed 
her  hair,  she  read  a  book,  since,  as  she  so  often  la- 
mented, she  had  so  little  time  for  reading  during  the 
day;  sometimes  she  sat  in  front  of  her  fire  making 
further  plans  for  her  comfort. 

To-night  plans  occupied  her  for  a  considerable 
time,  and  though  they  directly  concerned  Edith, 
they  might  still  be  correctly  classified  as  bearing  on 
her  own  comfort.  She  had  literally  enjoyed  half  an 
hour's  conversation  with  Edward  after  dinner;  this 
had  been  of  a  highly  satisfactory  character,  for  she 
had  ascertained  that  he  was  making  a  really  substan- 
tial income,  and  that  he  had  investments,  all  of  a 
sound  character,  which  already  amounted  to  over 
thirty  thousand  pounds.  This,  in  the  event  of  his 
death — to  which  apparently  he  did  not  mind  alluding 
at  all — he  was  prepared  to  settle  on  his  wife.    The 


84  ARUXDEL 

house  next  door  was  freehold  property  of  his,  and, 
thoup;h  he  had  contemplated  selhng  that  and  pur- 
chasing one  that  was  more  of  the  size  to  which  Edith 
was  accustomed,  he  seemed  perfectly  ready  to  fall  in 
with  Mrs.  Hancock's  clearly  expressed  wish  that  he 
should  remain  where  he  was,  for  the  wrench  of  part- 
ing with  Edith  at  all  was  only  tolerable  to  her  if  the 
parting  was  not  to  be  more  than  a  few  yards  in 
breadth.  The  question  of  the  garden-gate  in  the 
paling  did  not,  however,  fill  him  with  any  intense 
enthusiasm,  and  she,  after  making  it  cjuite  clear  that 
he  was  not  expected  to  pay  for  it,  let  the  subject 
drop.  But  she  intended  to  give  Ellis  the  necessary 
instructions  all  the  same,  for  she  was  quite  sure  he 
woukl  like  it  when  it  was  done.  Furthermore,  he  had 
not  expressed  the  least  curiosity  as  regards  what  al- 
lowance or  dowry  slie  was  intending  to  give  Edith, 
which  showed  a  very  proper  confidence.  He  could 
not,  in  fact,  have  behaved  with  greater  delicacy,  and 
yet  that  delicacy  had  put  Mrs.  Hancock,  so  to  speak, 
rather  in  a  hole.  She  had  to  determine,  by  the  light 
of  her  own  generosity  alone,  what  she  was  prepared 
to  do. 

It  was  this  pomt  that  now  occupied  her,  after  she 
had  written  a  note  to  the  stores,  ordering  a  footstool 
nine  inches  high,  covered  in  a  dark  red  shade  of  rus- 
sia  leather.  ...  So  that  was  ofif  her  mind.  Edward 
had  given  quite  a  warm  welcome  to  the  scheme  of 
the  Egyptian  expedition,  and  had  expressed  his 
readiness  to  take  no  holiday  this  summer,  but  have 
his  vacation  then.  In  this  case,  marriage  in  Novem- 
ber, a  month's  honeymoon  with  his  bride,  and  a  re- 
union with  Mrs.  Hancock  at  Cairo,  was  an  ideal 
arrangement.  All  this  kindled  Mrs.  Hancock's  sense 
of  generosity,  for  it  would  relieve  her  of  the  expense 
of  Edith  on  the  Egyptian  tour,  and  in  the  first  glow 
of  her  gratification,  she  proposed  to  herself  to  settle 


COMFORTABLE  PLANS  85 

on  Edith  a  sum  that  should  produce  four  hundred 
pounds  a  year.  She  was  almost  surprised  at  herself 
for  this  unhesitating  open-handedness,  and  sat  down 
to  consider  just  what  it  meant. 

Four  hundred  a  year  represented  a  capital  of  over 
ten  thousand  pounds.  That  seemed  a  great  deal  of 
money  to  put  without  restriction  into  the  hands  of 
a  girl  who  hitherto  had  been  accustomed  to  control 
only  an  allowance  for  dress  and  pocket-money  paid 
quarterly.  It  would  be  much  more  prudent,  and  in- 
deetl  kinder,  to  give  her,  at  first  anyhow,  till  by  ex- 
perience in  household  management,  she  became  ac- 
customed to  deal  with  larger  sums,  a  quarterly  al- 
lowance as  before.  Four  hundred  a  year  was  more 
than  double  what  she  had  been  accustomed  to,  and 
no  doubt  Edward,  who  was  clearly  the  soul  of  gen- 
erosity, would  give  her  no  less.  Edith  would  then 
be  mistress,  for  her  own  private  expenses  alone,  of 
no  less  than  eight  hundred  a  year.  This  was  colossal 
affluence;  enough,  carefully  used,  for  the  upbringing 
and  support  of  an  entire  family.  She  could  never 
spend  eight  hundred  a  year,  and  there  was  no  need 
for  her  to  save,  since  she  was  the  wife  of  a  well-to-do 
husband,  and  heiress  to  a  considerable  fortune.  So 
much  money  would  but  be  a  burden  to  her.  If  her 
mother  allowed  her  two  hundred  a  year,  that  added 
to  what  Edward  would  no  doubt  insist  on  giving  her 
— Mrs.  Hancock  had  settled  that  he  would  certainly 
give  as  much  as  she  had  origmally  thought  of  giv- 
ing— would  make  her  a  more  than  ample  allowance. 

Her  thoughts  went  back  for  a  moment  to  the  note 
to  the  stores  which  lay  on  the  table.  Certainly  a 
footstool  made  a  motor-drive  much  more  comforta- 
ble, and,  since  Edith  was  going  to  accompany  her  to 
Bath,  her  mother  could  not  bear  the  thought  that 
she  should  lack  the  comforts  she  gave  herself.  She 
would   order  two   footstools.  .  .  .  Without  a  mo- 


86  ARUNDEL 

merit's  hesitation  she  opened  the  letter  and  made  the 
necessary  alteration.  There!  That  was  done.  How 
pleased  Edith  would  be. 

She  returned  to  the  question  of  the  allowance, 
viewing  it,  as  it  were,  from  a  rather  greater  distance. 
She  hoped,  she  prayed  that  Edith  would  have  chil- 
dren, who  must  certainly  adore  their  granny.  Their 
granny  would  certainly  adore  them,  and  it  would  be 
nothing  less  than  a  joy  to  her  to  give  each  of  them, 
say,  a  hundred  pounds  every  birthday,  to  be  pru- 
dently invested  for  them,  so  that  when  they  came  of 
age  they  would  have  tidy  little  fortunes  of  their  own. 
She  glowed  with  pleasure  when  she  thought  of  that. 
Children's  etlucation  was  a  great  expense,  and  it 
woultl  be  so  nice  for  Edward  to  know  that,  as  each 
child  of  his  came  of  age,  he  would  have  waiting  for 
him  (juite  a  little  income  of  his  own;  or,  capitalized, 
such  a  sum  would  start  the  boys  in  life,  and  provide 
quite  a  dowry  for  the  daughters.  At  compound  in- 
terest money  doubled  itself  in  no  time;  they  would 
all  be  young  men  and  women  of  independent  means. 
Perliaps  Edith  would  have  five  or  six  children,  and, 
though  ]\Irs.  Hancock's  munificence  would  then  be 
costing  her  six  hundred  a  year — or  interest  on  fif- 
teen thousand  pounds — she  felt  that  it  would  be  the 
greatest  delight  to  pinch  herself  to  make  ends  meet 
for  the  sake  of  being  such  a  fairy-granny.  But  if 
she  was  paying  Edith  two  hundred  a  year  all  the 
time  the  very  queen  of  the  fair>'-grannies  would 
scarcely  be  able  to  afford  all  this.  And  she  felt  quite 
sure  that  Edith  would  choose  to  have  her  children 
provided  for  rather  than  herself,  for  she  had  the  most 
unselfish  of  natures. 

Hitherto  Edith  had  received  a  hundred  and  fifty  a 
year  for  dress  and  travelling  expenses  when  she  went 
alone.  She  had  done  very  well  on  that,  and  was 
always  neat  and  tidy;  now  without  doubt  her  hus- 


COMFORTABLE  PLANS  87 

band  would  pay  all  her  travelling  expenses,  since 
they  would  always  travel  together.  Even  if  she  con- 
tinued to  give  Edith  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a 
year,  that,  with  her  travelling  expenses  paid  by  her 
husband,  and  an  allowance — as  before — of  four  hun- 
dred a  year  from  him,  would  be  far  more  than  she 
could  possibly  require.  Besides,  her  mother  had  al- 
ready settled  to  provide  lunch  for  her  every  day 
while  Edward  was  in  town,  and  a  motor-drive  after- 
wards, while  to  keep  the  croquet-lawn  at  such  a 
pitch  of  perfection  as  so  fine  a  player  as  Edward 
would  expect — and  she  was  determined  he  should 
find — would  mean  very  likely  another  gardener,  or, 
at  any  rate,  a  man  to  come  in  once  or  twice  a  week 
to  help  Ellis.  Then  there  was  the  trousseau  to  be 
thought  of,  which  Mrs.  Hancock  was  invincibly  de- 
termined to  provide  herself,  and  that  would  cost 
more  than  the  whole  of  Edith's  allowance  for  the 
year.  Certainly,  with  this  necessary  visit  to  Bath, 
and  the  winter  in  Eg}'pt  which  she  had  promised 
Edward  she  would  manage,  and  with  the  expense  of 
having  Elizabeth  in  the  house  all  the  summer  she 
herself  would  be  very  poor  indeed  for  the  next  year. 
It  seemed  really  unreasonable  that  for  these  twelve 
months  she  would  give  Edith  any  allowance  at  all. 
And  by  that  time,  please  God,  there  might  be  a  little 
grandchild  to  begin  providing  for.  Evidently  she 
would  have  to  be  very  careful  and  saving,  but  the 
thought  of  those  for  whom  she  would  be  stinting 
herself  made  such  sacrifice  a  work  of  joy  and  pleas- 
ure. But  for  a  moment  she  looked  at  the  note  to  the 
stores  again,  wondering  whether  it  would  not  be 
possible  to  put  one  footstool  between  them  to  be 
shared  by  both.  That  red  leather  w^as  very  expen- 
sive. 

Then  there  were  wedding  presents  to  be  thought 
of,  and,  though  she  was  determined  to  give  Edith 


88  ARUNDEL 

her  whole  trousseau,  she  meant  to  behave  lavishly 
in  this  respect,  and,  glowing  with  the  prospective 
delight  of  giving,  she  opened  the  Bramah-locked 
jewel  safe  which  was  let  into  her  bedroom  wall.  She 
quite  longed  to  clasp  round  Edith's  neck  the  four 
fine  rows  of  pearls  which  had  come  to  her  from  her 
late  husband,  but  this  was  impossible,  since  she  was 
convinced  they  were  heirlooms,  and  must  remain 
in  her  possession  till  her  death.  There  was  a  dia- 
mond tiara,  wliich.  it  was  true,  was  her  own  prop- 
erty, but  this  was  far  too  matronly  an  ornament  for 
a  young  bride;  diamond  tiaras  also  were  out  of  place 
in  Heatlimoor,  and  she  had  not  once  worn  it  her- 
self in  the  ten  years  that  she  had  lived  there;  it  was 
no  use  giving  dear  Edith  jewels  tliat  she  u'ould  but 
lock  up  in  her  safe.  Then  there  was  an  emerald  neck- 
lace of  admirable  stones,  but  it  was  old-fashioned, 
and  green  never  suited  Edith.  She  disliked  green; 
she  would  not  wear  it.  But  pink  was  her  favourite 
colour,  and  here  was  the  very  thing,  a  dog-collar  of 
beautiful  coral  with  a  pearl  clasp.  How  often  had 
Edith  a(hnired  it!  How  often  had  her  mother 
thought  of  giving  it  her!  There  was  a  charming 
moonstone  brooch,  too,  set  in  dear  little  turquoises. 
The  blue  and  the  pink  wouM  go  deliciously  together. 
As  a  matter  of  fart  the  turquoises  were  rather  green, 
too. 

But  it  was  late ;  time  had  flown  over  those  liberal 
schemes.  She  locked  up  the  coral  necklace  and  the 
moonstone  brooch  in  a  drawer  by  themselves — 
Edith's  drawer  she  instantly  christened  it — said  her 
prayers  with  an  overflowing  heart  and  went  to  bed. 
Just  before  she  fell  asleep  she  made  up  her  mind 
to  order  new  morocco  boxes  lined  with  dark-blue 
velvet,  with  Edith's  new  initials  in  gilt  upon  them, 
to  hold  these  wedding-gifts.  Then  there  was  Ed- 
ward; she  must  give  him  something  he  would  use 


COMFORTABLE  PLANS  89 

and  take  pleasure  in;  there  was  no  sense  in  giving 
presents  which  were  not  useful.  .  .  .  Suddenly  an 
excellent  idea  struck  her.  How  pleased  he  would  be 
at  her  remembering  the  want  ho  had  expressed  the 
otlier  day — a  want  that  was  only  one  item  out  of 
the  gift  she  contemplated.  She  would  give  him  a 
whole  set,  and  he  might  keep  them  in  her  garden- 
house  since  he  would  use  them  here.  It  would  be 
necessary  to  write  another  letter  to  the  stores.  What 
a  lot  of  things  there  were  to  think  about  and  pro- 
vide when  young  people  were  going  to  be  married! 
The  little  party  which  Airs.  Hancock  invited  to 
receive  officially  the  news  of  Editli's  engagement 
were  all  ''delighted  to  be  able  to  accept,"  even 
though  the  notice  was  so  short.  Dinner-giving  at 
Heathmoor,  though  during  the  summer  croquet  and 
lawn-tennis  parties,  with  iced  coffee  and  caviare 
sandwiches,  were  of  almost  daily  occurrence — in- 
deed, sometimes  they  clashed — was  chiefly  confined 
to  Saturday  evening,  when  no  sense  of  early  trains 
on  the  morrow  made  writing  on  the  wall  to  check 
conviviality.  Mrs.  Hancock  knew  that  quite  well, 
though  in  her  notes  to  her  guests  she  had  said,  "if 
by  any  chance  you  happen  to  be  disengaged  on  Tues- 
day," and  would  have  been  much  surprised  if  any 
previous  engagement  had  forced  any  one  to  be 
obUged  to  decline.  Personally,  she  would  have  liked 
to  get  together  a  somewhat  larger  gathering,  for 
Ellis  said  there  was  no  doubt  about  a  sufficiency 
of  asparagus,  but  Lind  invariably  set  his  hatchet- 
like face  against  a  party  of  more  than  eight,  which 
he  considered  a  sufficiently  festive  number.  In  the 
earlier  years  of  Lind's  iron  rule  jNIrs.  Hancock  had 
sometimes  invited  a  larger  party,  but  on  these  occa- 
sions the  service  had  been  so  slow,  the  wine  so 
sparingly  administered,  and  Lind's  demeanour,  if 
she  remonstrated  next  morning,  so  frozen  and  fatalis- 


90  ARUXDEL 

tic,  so  full  of  scarcely  veiled  threats  about  his  not 
giving  satisfaction,  that  by  degrees  he  had  schooled 
her  into  submission,  and  she  was  beginning  to  con- 
sider that  eight  was  the  pleasantest  number  of 
guests,  and  a  quarter-to  the  most  suitable  hour, 
which  also  was  Lind's  choice.  So  on  this  occasion 
there  were  the  engaged  couple  and  herself,  the  cler- 
gyman, Mr.  Martin,  and  his  wife,  an  eminent  and 
solid  solicitor,  Mr  Dobbs  with  Mrs.  Dobbs,  and  IMr. 
Beaumont,  one  of  the  few  men  in  Hcathmoor  who 
was  not  actively  engaged  all  day  in  making  money, 
partly  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  he  had  a  great 
deal  already,  partly  that  he  would  have  certainly 
lost  it  instead.  Idle,  however,  he  was  not,  for  he 
was  an  entomologist  of  fanatical  activity.  *He  spent 
most  summer  evenings  in  spreading  intoxicating 
mixtures  of  beer  and  sugar  on  tree-trunks  to  stupefy 
unwary  lepidoptera,  most  of  the  niglit  in  visiting 
these  banquets  with  a  lantern,  and  taking  into  cus- 
tody his  inebriated  guests,  and  the  entire  day  in 
beating  copses  for  caterpillars,  in  running  over  noon- 
day heaths  with  a  giTen  l)utterfly  net.  and  in  killing 
and  setting  the  trophies  of  his  chase.  For  a  year 
or  two  Mrs.  Hancock  had  spread  vague  snares  about 
him  for  Edith's  sake,  feigning  an  unfounded  interest 
in  the  crawlings  of  caterpillars  and  the  dormancy 
of  chrysalides,  but  her  hunting  had  been  firmly  and 
successfully  thwarted  l)y  his  gaunt  sister,  who  de- 
voted her  untiring  energy  to  the  destruction  of 
winged  insects  and  the  preservation  of  her  brother's 
celibacy.  She  never  went  out  into  Heathmoor  so- 
ciety, though  she  occasionally  played  hostess  at 
singularly  uncomfortable  dinners  at  home.  These 
entertainments  were  not  very  popular,  since  escaped 
caterpillars  sometimes  came  to  the  party,  a  smell 
of  camphor  and  insects  pervaded  the  house,  and 
Miss  Beaumont  began  yawning  punctually  at  ten 


COMFORTABLE  PLANS  91 

o'clock,  until  the  last  guest  had  departed.  Then 
she  killed  some  more  moths.  But  her  brother  was 
the  nucleus  of  Heathmoor  dinners,  and  hostesses 
starting  with  him  built  up  agreeable  gatherings 
round  him,  for,  tliough  Heathmoor  was  not  one  atom 
more  snobbish  than  other  settlements  of  the  kind, 
it  was  idle  to  pretend  that  the  nephew  of  an  earl, 
brother  of  a  viscountess,  and  member  of  the  Royal 
Entomological  Society  was  not  a  good  basis  on  which 
to  build  a  social  evening.  He  had  a  charming  tenor 
voice  which  he  had  not  the  slightest  notion  how  to 
use;  and  Heathmoor  considered  that,  had  he  chosen 
to  go  on  the  operatic  stage,  there  would  not  have 
been  so  much  talk  about  Caruso;  while  the  interest 
with  which  he  listened  to  long  accounts  of  house- 
hold difficulties  with  fiends  in  the  shape  of  house- 
maids was  certainly  beyond  all  praise.  At  home  he 
managed  the  whole  affairs  of  the  menage  from  see- 
ing the  cook  in  the  morning  to  giving  his  dog  his 
supper  in  the  evening,  since  his  sister,  when  not  oc- 
cupied with  his  moths,  was  absorbed  in  Roman  his- 
tory. 

Mr.  IMartin  and  his  wife  were  the  first  to  arrive, 
and,  as  usual,  the  vicar  took  up  his  place  on  the 
hearthrug  with  the  air  of  temporary  host.  This,  in- 
deed, was  his  position  at  Mrs.  Hancock's,  for  it  was 
he  whom  she  always  left  in  charge  of  the  men  in 
the  dining-room  when  the  ladies  left  them  to  their 
wine,  with  instructions  as  to  where  the  cigarettes 
were,  and  not  to  stop  too  long.  It  was  his  business 
also,  at  which  he  was  adept,  to  be  trumpeter  in  gen- 
eral of  the  honour  and  glory  of  his  hostess,  and  re- 
fer to  any  late  acquisition  of  hers  in  the  way  of 
motor-cars,  palings,  or  rambler  roses.  In  this  posi- 
tion of  host  he  naturally  took  precedence  of  every- 
body else,  and  his  mot  "Round  collars  are  more  than 
coronets"  when  conducting  the  leading  lady  to  the 


92  ARUNDEL 

dininp;-room  in  the  teeth,  you  may  say,  of  a  baro- 
net, dazzled  Heathmoor  for  weeks  whenever  they 
thought  of  it.  His  wife,  a  plump  little  Dresden 
shepherdess,  made  much  use  of  the  ejaculation, 
"Only  fancy!"  and  at  her  husband's  naughtier  sal- 
lies exclaimed,  "Alfred,  Alfred!"  while  she  at- 
tempted to  cover  her  face  with  a  very  small  hand 
to  hide  her  laughter.  Soon  they  were  joined  by  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Dobbs,  and  shortly  after  by  Mr.  Beau- 
mont, who  looked,  as  was  indeed  the  case,  as  if  he 
had  been  running. 

Mrs.  Hancock's  dinners  were  always  admirable, 
and  since  Mrs.  Williams  kept  a  book  of  all  her 
menus  there  was  no  risk  of  guests  being  regaled  with 
dishes  they  had  lately  partaken  of  at  tHe  house. 
The  conversation,  if  anything,  was  slightly  less 
varied,  since,  apart  from  contemporaneous  happen- 
ings that  recjuired  conunent,  tlie  main  topics  of  in- 
terest were  rather  of  the  nature  of  hardy  perennials. 
Mr.  Beaumont's  sister  was  always  inquired  after, 
and  usually  the  opinion  of  his  uncle  with  regard  to 
the  latest  iniquity  of  the  Radical  government. 
Weather,  gardens,  croquet  were  questions  that 
starred  the  conversational  heavens  with  planet-like 
regularity,  moving  in  tlieir  appointed  orbits,  and 
Mr.  Dobbs  filled  such  inten'als  as  he  could  spare 
from  the  mastication  of  his  dinner  with  its  praise. 

"Delicious  glass  of  sherr^^  Mrs.  Hancock,"  he 
said,  very  early  in  the  proceedings.  "You  can't  buy 
sherry  like  that  now." 

Mr.  IMartin's  evening  clothes  were  not  cut  so  as 
to  suggest  his  profession.  He  based  his  influence 
not  on  his  clothes,  but  on  his  human  sympathy  with 
the  joys  and  sorrows  of  his  friends.  "There  is  a 
time  to  mourn,  to  weep,  to  repent,"  he  said  once 
in  a  sermon ;  "but  undoubtedly  there  is  a  time  to  be 
as  jolly  as  a  sand-boy."    He  did  not  approve  of  tee- 


COMFORTABLE  PLANS  93 

totalism;  any  one  could  be  a  teetotaller.  You  are 
more  of  an  example  by  partaking  of  the  good  things 
of  this  world  in  due  moderation.  He  drank  half  his 
glass  of  sherry. 

"I  always  tell  Mrs.  Hancock  that  her  wine  would 
cause  a  Rechabite  to  recant,"  he  observed  gaily. 

Mrs.  Martin  covered  her  face  with  her  hand  and 
gave  a  little  spurt  of  laughter.  This  was  an  old  joke, 
but  social  gaiety  would  speedily  become  a  thing  of 
the  past  if  we  never  appeared  to  be  amused  at  fa- 
miliar witticisms. 

"Alfred,  Alfred!"  she  said.  "How  can  you?  Is 
not  Alfred  wicked?" 

Conversation  became  general. 

"And  have  you  begun  croquet  yet  this  year,  Mr. 
Holroyd?"  asked  Mrs.  Dobbs.  "I  suppose  you  will 
carrj'-  off  all  the  prizes  again,  as  you  always  do.  I 
wish  you  would  make  Mr.  Dobbs  take  to  it  instead 
of  spending  all  his  time  catching  slugs  in  the  gar- 
den.   So  much  better  for  him." 

"Do  not  listen  to  Mrs.  Dobbs,  Holroyd!"  cried 
the  vicar.  "I  use  my  authority  to  forbid  your  listen- 
ing to  Mrs.  Dobbs.  The  slugs  spoil  the  flowers,  and, 
like  a  greedy  fellow,  I  want  every  flower  in  Heath- 
moor  for  Trinity  Sunday." 

"Alfred!    Alfred!"  said  his  wife. 

"Yes,  my  dear,  and  you  will  never  guess  what 
Mrs.  Hancock  has  just  promised  me.  While  she  is 
at  Bath  I  may  order  Ellis  to  send  a  basket  of  her 
best  flowers  up  to  the  church  every  Sunday.  No 
limitation  over  the  basket,  mind  you.  It  shall  be 
a  clothes-basket!  And  as  for  best  flowers — well, 
all  I  can  saj^  is  that  any  one  who  hasn't  seen  Mrs. 
Hancock's  tulips  this  year  doesn't  know  what  tulips 
can  be." 

Mr.  Dobbs,  who  ate  with  his  head  perpendicularly 
above  his  plate,  looked  up  at  his  wife. 


94  ARUNDEL 

"I  told  you  salmon  could  be  got,  my  dear!"  he 
said. 

''You  shall  have  it,"  she  said,  "but  don't  blame 
me  for  the  fishmonger's  book." 

Mr.  Martin  laughed  joyfully. 

"My  wife  tells  me  I  nmstn't  play  golf  so  much," 
he  said,  "because  it  gives  me  such  an  appetite  that 
I  eat  her  out  of  hearth  and  home.  But  I  tell  her  it 
is  one  of  my  parochial  duties.  How  can  I  get  to 
know  the  young  fellows  of  the  place  unless  I  join 
in  their  amusements?  They  will  never  tell  me  their 
diflBculties  and  temptations  unless  they  have  founrl 
me  in  sympathy  witii  their  joys.  And  if  when  I 
am  playing  with  tlieni  there  is  troul)le  in, the  long 
grass,  and  occasionally  a  little  word,  a  wee  naughty 
little  word  slips  out — ("Alfred,  Alfred!") — you  may 
be  sure  that  I  never  seem  to  hear  it." 

"Well,  I  do  call  that  tact!"  said  Mrs.  Hancock 
genially.  "But  you  must  take  a  little  cucumber  with 
your  salmon,  Mr.  Martin.  This  is  the  first  cucum- 
ber Ellis  has  sent  me  in." 

"A  gourd — a  positive  gourd,"  said  Mr.  Martin, 
taking  a  slice  of  this  remarkable  vegetable.  "Jonah 
and  his  whale  could  have  sat  under  it." 

"Is  not  Alfred  wicked?"  said  his  wife. 

"And  you  are  really  off  to  Bath  the  day  after  to- 
morrow?" asked  he.  "And  are  going  to  drive  all 
the  way  in  your  car?  Though,  of  course,  with  a 
car  like  yours  it  is  no  distance  at  all.  Sometimes  I 
see  your  car  on  one  horizon,  and  then,  whizz,  you 
are  out  of  sight  again  over  the  other.  But  no  noise, 
no  dust,  no  smell.  But  the  speed  limit.  Mrs.  Han- 
cock?   I  am  tempted  to  say  no  speed  limit,  either." 

He  refrained  from  this  audacious  suggestion,  and 
continued — 

"Such  an  excellent  steady  fellow,  too,  you  have 
in  Denton.    I  always  see  my  friend  Denton  coming 


CO^NIFORTABLE  PLANS  95 

in  during  the  Psalms  after  he  has  taken  your  car 
home,  antl  if  he  has  to  leave  again  in  the  middle  of 
the  sermon.  I'm  sure  he  only  docs  at  the  call  of  duty 
what  half  the  congregation  would  do  for  pleasure  if 
they  had  the  courage.  They  have  my  sympathy. 
How  bored  I  should  get  if  I  had  to  listen  to  a  long- 
winded  parson  every  Sunday." 

Mrs.  Hancock  cast  an  anxious  eye  on  the  aspara- 
gus.   But  there  was  a  perfect  haystack  of  it. 

''How  much  I  enjoyed  your  sermon  last  Sunday," 
said  she,  "aljout  the  duty  of  being  diccrful  and 
hai)py,  and  doing  all  we  can  to  make  ourselves 
hajipy  for  the  sake  of  others.  Oh,  you  must  take 
more  asparagus!  Ellis  would  l)e  miserable  if  it 
was  not  all  eaten.  It  is  only  the  second  time  we 
have  had  it  this  year." 

For  the  moment  she  thought  of  telling  IMr.  Alar- 
tin  to  supply  himself  with  asparagus  while  she  was 
at  Bath.  But  the  duty  of  making  herself  happy 
prevailed,  and  she  refrained,  for  it  occurred  to  her 
that  Ellis  might  dispatch  daily  bundles  early  in  the 
morning  in  cardboard  boxes,  so  that  they  would 
reach  Bath  in  time  to  be  cooked  for  dinner.  The 
hotel  commissariat  would  certahily  not  rise  to  as- 
paragus so  early  in  the  season. 

Mrs,  Martin  in  the  meantime,  with  one  syco- 
phantic ear  open  to  catch  her  husband's  jokes,  was 
full  of  fancy  ejaculations  to  Mr.  Beaumont,  who  was 
describing  to  her  the  romantic  history  of  the  female 
oak-egger,  which  exercised  so  extraordinary  a  fasci- 
nation on  all  young  males  for  miles  around.  Here 
Mr.  Dobbs  was  lacking  in  felicity,  for  he  remarked 
that  a  great  many  unmarried  young  ladies  would  be 
glad  to  know  how  the  female  oak-egger  did  it.  But 
Mr.  Beaumont  made  it  unnecessary  for  Mrs.  Dobbs 
even  to  frown  at  him,  so  rapidly  did  he  wonder 
whether  it  was  called  an  oak-egger  because  it  laid 


96  ARUNDEL 

upwards  of  a  million  eggs.  Then  Mrs.  Hancock 
called  the  attention  of  the  table  generally  to  the  fact 
that  the  gooseberry  tartlets  were  the  produce  of  the 
garden — the  first  of  the  year — and  Mr.  Martin  al- 
luded to  the  Feast  of  the  Blessed  Innocents,  saying 
that  even  massacre  had  a  silver  lining,  though  not 
for  the  massacred.  A  savoury  of  whicli  Mr.  Dobbs 
was  easily  induced  to  take  a  second  helping  brought 
dinner  to  what  musicians  call  "a  full  close." 

Then  came  the  moment  of  the  evening.  Port 
was  ruthlessly  supplied  by  Lind  to  all  the  guests, 
whetluT  thoy  wanted  it  or  not,  and  Mrs.  Hancock 
rose  witli  her  kind  Ijrown  eyes  moist  with  emotion. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  she  said,  *'I  h^ve  a  toast 
to  propose.  I  ask  you  to  drink  the  health  of  my 
dear  daughter  and  of  Edward  Holroyd,  my  future 
son-in-law.     Your  heahh.  my  dear,  dear  children!" 

Mr.  Beaumont  instantly  led  ofif  the  musical  hon- 
ours on  so  high  a  note  that  those  of  the  party  who 
could  sing  followed  with  faint  gasps  and  screams. 
And,  under  cover  of  the  hul)l)ub  of  comment  and 
congratulation  that  followed,  shyly  and  eagerly 
Edith's  eye  sought  her  future  husband.  And  when 
his  eye  met  hers  she  felt  her  heart  rap  out  a  tumultu- 
ous dozen  of  unbidden  beats,  fast  and  sweetly 
suffocating.  Then  she  blushed  furiously  at  a  sud- 
den self-accusation  of  indelicacy,  of  unmaidenness. 
But  her  heart  acquitted  her  of  the  indictment.  Was 
it  not  right  to  give  that  tattoo  of  welcome? 

The  start  for  Bath  was  made  in  strict  accordance 
with  the  scheduled  plan.  Filson,  with  the  heavy 
luggage  on  the  top  of  the  motor,  accompanied  by 
Lind,  her  lunch,  and  a  freshly  cut  bundle  of  aspara- 
gus destined  for  Mrs.  Hancock's  dinner  in  the  eve- 
ning, left  the  house  in  such  good  time  that  she  had 
to  wait  twenty-five  minutes  at  the  station,  which 


COMFORTABLE  PLANS  97 

it  took  exactly  three  to  reach.  The  motor  returned 
in  time  for  Lincl  to  serve  Mrs.  Hancock's  breakfast 
with  all  the  finish  and  decorum  to  which  she  was 
accustomed.  Then  the  new  nine-inch  footstool — 
Mrs.  Hancock  had  decided  against  the  extravagance 
of  two — the  map  of  the  route,  the  large  luncheon- 
basket,  the  adjustable  card-table,  the  writing-case, 
a  couple  of  new  volumes  from  Mudic's,  cloaks  of 
varying  thickness,  and  the  great  green  russia  leather 
travelling  sack  were  conveniently  bestowed,  and 
full  five  minutes  before  the  appointed  time  the  car 
slid  silently  away  from  the  door,  with  all  possible 
provision  made  for  a  comfortable  journey. 

The  first  five  minutes  were  spent  in  verifying  the 
presence  of  all  these  conveniences,  and  Mrs.  Han- 
cock sank  back  on  her  carefully  adjusted  cushions. 

"There!"  she  said.  "We  are  in  for  it  now,  dear; 
and  if  all  goes  as  well  as  it  has  begun  we  shall  be 
at  Bath  by  five.  How  much  nicer  than  all  the  fuss 
of  crossing  London,  antl  the  risk  of  having  some- 
body put  into  our  carriage.  Fancy  our  never  hav- 
ing thought  of  motoring  to  Bath  before!  Oh,  look, 
there  is  Air.  Martin  going  to  play  golf!  How  early 
we  all  are  this  morning!  And  perhaps  we  shall  see 
Mr.  Beaumont  with  his  butterfly  net.  Then  as  soon 
as  we  get  into  the  main  road  I  shall  have  a  look 
at  the  morning  paper.  There  has  not  been  a  minute 
to  glance  at  it  yet;  or  perhaps  you  would  look  at 
it  for  me,  dear  Edith,  and  tell  me  what  there  is. 
The  motion  always  makes  the  print  dance  a  little 
before  my  eyes.  I  expect  the  time  will  slip  by  so 
that  we  shall  be  astonished  when  we  find  we  are  at 
Bath,  and  very  likely  not  be  at  all  tired.  And  you 
must  be  on  the  look-out  for  anything  interesting, 
and  write  to  Edward  about  it,  in  case,  when  he 
comes  down  for  a  Sunday,  he  comes  by  motor.  Then 
he  will  be  on  the  look-out  and  see  it,  too.    Why, 


98  ARUNDEL 

we  are  at  Sloii,2;h  already!  There  is  the  Great  West- 
ern line.  Filson's  train  will  go  along  there.  If 
she  had  started  three  or  four  hours  earlier  her  train 
might  have  gone  by  as  we  passed,  and  she  could 
have  looked  out  of  the  window  and  seen  us.  That 
would  have  been  a  coincidence!" 

The  car  ran  so  smoothly  on  the  excellent  surface 
of  the  Bath  road  that  Mrs.  Hancock  found  that  the 
print  of  her  Morning  Post  had  not  the  smallest 
tendency  to  ''dance,"  and  reserving,  as  usual,  the 
leaders  and  longer  paragraphs  for  the  digestive 
period  after  lunch,  she  soaked  herself  gently  as  in 
a  warm  bath,  in  the  announcements  of  the  arrival 
in  London  of  people  she  had  never  seen,  and  the 
appearance  at  the  opera  of  those  she  had  never 
heard  of.  What  taste  exactly  was  gratified  by 
these  tit-bits  of  information  it  would  be  hard 
to  say.  Possibly  the  sense  that  so  many  people 
were  moving  backwards  and  forwards  enhanced  the 
enjoyment  of  her  own  leisure;  she  mentally  con- 
trasted the  bustle  that  was  incident  to  journeys 
from  Paris  with  her  own  smooth,  unhurrying  prog- 
ress to  Bath.  Edith,  meantime  following  her 
mother's  suggestion  that  she  should  look  out  of  the 
window  in  order  to  be  able  to  communicate  to  Ed- 
ward objects  of  interest  to  be  seen  by  the  road,  soon 
passed  from  external  observation  to  introspection. 

These  last  four  or  five  days  since  she  had  so  un- 
emotionally accepted  his  offer  of  himself  to  her  had 
about  them  something  of  the  unconjectured  sur- 
prises of  dawn,  when,  after  a  night  of  travel,  the 
darkness  begins  to  lift  off  from  the  face  of  a  new 
and  unfamiliar  country.  It  was  he,  in  this  image, 
who  took  the  place  of  the  light,  and  the  country 
which  its  gradual  illumination  revealed,  as  it  soaked 
through  and  dissolved  the  webs  of  darkness,  was 
herself.     For  it  is  an  undeniable  truth  that  love, 


COMFORTABLE  PLANS  99 

that  absorption  of  self  in  another  self,  cannot  take 
place  till  the  giver  has  some  notion  of  the  nature 
of  the  gift  that  he  brings,  and  Edith  up  till  the 
present  time  was  as  ignorant  of  herself  as  are  all 
girls  whose  emotions  and  womanhood  have  never 
been  really  roused.  She  had  accepted  her  lover  with- 
out knowing  what  devotion  meant,  or  who  it  was 
who  accepted  him,  except  in  so  far  that  her  name 
was  Edith  Hancock,  her  years  twenty-four,  and  her 
complexion  fair.  For  the  arrows  of  love  are  at  the 
least  feathered  with  egotism;  they  will  not  fly  un- 
less a  conscious  personality  enables  them  to  steer 
straight,  but  flutter  and  dip  and  reach  no  mark. 

At  first,  frankly,  she  was  appalled  by  the  barren- 
ness which  the  light  of  her  lover  showed.  It  ap- 
peared to  be  level  land,  without  streams  or  inspiring 
hill-tops,  a  country  uncovetable,  a  featureless,  a 
mountainous  acreage.  But  it  was  not  stonily  bar- 
ren; even  her  eyes,  unaccustomed  to  the  light  and 
that  which  it  revealed,  saw  that.  It  was  barren 
but  from  emptiness,  and  empty,  perhaps  only  as 
the  winter  fields  are  bare.  It  was  not  an  unkindly, 
an  inhospitable  land ;  the  very  soil  of  it  cried  out 
and  told  her  that.  All  day  the  image  of  her  empty 
country,  but  not  unkindly,  hung  in  her  mind  even 
as  an  unborn  melody  hovers  a  little  above  the  brain 
of  the  musician,  until  condensing  hke  dew  it  melts 
into  it.  And  all  day,  but  very  gradually,  for  these 
dawns  of  love  come  seldom  in  a  blinding  flash  of 
a  sun  upleaping  over  the  horizon,  but  rather  in  a 
slow  crescendo  of  illumination  as  of  a  waxing  flame 
that  shall  mount  to  who  knows  what  transmitted 
fire,  the  first  wonderful  twilight  of  the  day  grew 
rosy.  And  in  that  morning-rose,  which  showed  her 
herself,  she  saw  also  him  whom  it  welcomed. 
Eagerly  and  with  strong  sense  of  possession,  she 
claimed  him.    It  was  to  her  that  he  belonged;  he 


100  ARUNDEL 

was  hers,  to  be  loved  and  adored,  but  also  to  be 
owned. 

Outwardly,  she  was  the  Edith  whom  her  mother 
knew,  though  in  her  spirit  were  beginning  those 
changes  which  must  soon  malce  her  old  self  a  thing 
unrecognizable  to  her  clearer  vision.  But  it  was 
scarcely  strange  that  Mrs.  Hancock  saw  no  hint  of 
change,  for,  as  may  have  been  perceived,  she  had 
the  gift,  or  limitation  of  being  completely  taken  up 
with  the  surface  of  things;  indeed,  to  her  mind  any 
inquiry  into  the  mechanism  of  the  spirit  and  its 
pulses  was  of  the  same  indelicacy  as  discussion  of 
the  functions  and  operations  of  the  human  body. 
If  your  body  was  ill  you  wont  quickly  to  the  doctor, 
and  did  not  call  your  friends'  attention  to'  your  in- 
firmity; if  your  soul  was  ill But  Mrs.  Han- 
cock's soul  was  never  ill. 

They  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  a  great  many 
more  Great  Western  trains  at  Reading,  and  passed 
out  into  the  delectal)le  country  beyond.  Then 
totally  unexpected  difficulties  began  to  occur  with 
regard  to  the  spot  where  they  should  stop  and  take 
their  lunch.  Just  outside  Reading,  indeed,  there 
was  seen  an  entirely  suitable  place,  secluded,  shady, 
out  of  the  wind,  and  strongly  recommended  by  Den- 
ton, but  unfortunately  it  was  then  only  a  quarter- 
past  one,  and  Mrs.  Hancock  had  not  intended  to 
lunch  till  half-past.  Therefore  they  pushed  on, 
going  rather  slow  so  as  not  to  miss  any  really  proper 
encamping  ground.  Ten  minutes  later  they  were 
again  favoured  by  an  oak-tree  and  a  sheltering 
hedge,  but  here  unfortunately  a  tramp  was  asleep 
by  the  wayside.  At  any  moment  he  might  wake, 
and  prove  to  be  into.xicated,  and  Mrs.  Hancock  was 
quite  sure  she  could  not  enjoy  her  lunch  in  his 
vicinity.  Further  on  again  there  was  a  wayside  cot- 
tage too  near  a  proposed  halting-place,  for  children 


COMFORTABLE  PLANS  101 

might  come  out  of  it  and  stare,  and  the  cottage  was 
succeeded  by  a  smell  of  brick  fields.  Before  long 
Tilehurst  began  to  show  up  roofs,  and  it  was  neces- 
sary to  get  clear  of  Tilehurst  on  the  far  side  before 
any  sort  of  serenity  could  be  hoped  for.  Then  for 
nearly  a  mile  they  had  to  follow  an  impenetrable 
flock  of  sheep,  and  it  was  imperative  to  get  well 
ahead  of  them.  Pangbourne  appeared,  and  it  was 
already  after  two  o'clock.  It  will  hardly  be  crecHted 
that  they  had  ^arcely  got  free  of  this  contaminating 
village  when  a  tyre  punctured.  A  halt  was  inevita- 
ble while  it  was  being  repaired,  but  then  Denton 
could  not  eat  while  he  was  mending  it,  and  since 
they  would  have  to  stop  again  for  Denton  to  have 
his  lunch  (since  he  could  not  drive  during  that 
process),  it  was  better  to  make  a  halt  for  general 
refreshments  when  the  tyre  trouble  was  overpast. 

Mrs.  Hancock  looked  despairingly  round. 

"It  is  most  annoying."  she  said.  "I  do  not  know 
that  we  should  not  have  done  better  to  have  had 
lunch  at  an  inn  at  Reading,  or  to  have  stopped  at 
that  first  place.  Remember  to  tell  Edward,  dear, 
to  look  out  for  that  first  place  if  he  drives  down; 
there  is  positively  nowhere  after  that  where  he  can 
find  a  quiet  spot.  I  wonder  if  we  had  better  eat  a 
couple  of  biscuits  now  in  case  we  can't  find  a  suit- 
able place  soon.  Dear  me,  here  come  those  sheep 
again !  They  ought  not  to  be  allowed  to  drive  sheep 
along  a  road  that  is  meant  for  carriages.  Put  the 
window  up,  dear,  against  the  dust." 

Suddenly  illumination  like  a  cloud-piercing  ray 
shone  on  Edith.  It  struck  her  that  all  her  life  had 
been  spent  in  looking  for  a  place  to  have  lunch  in, 
so  to  speak,  in  putting  up  windows  for  fear  of  the 
dust,  in  avoiding  the  proximity  of  tramps.  In- 
finitesimal as  was  the  occasion,  it  seemed  to  throw 
an  amazing  light  on  to  her  life.    Up  till  the  present 


102  ARUXDEL 

it  was  hardly  an  exaggeration  to  say  that  anything 
more  important,  anything  more  directly  concerned 
with  existence  had  never  happened  to  her.  Was  it 
this  comfortable  ordered  life  in  which  an  infinite 
agglomeration  of  utterly  trivial  things  made  up  the 
sum  total  that  caused  her  lately  discovered  country 
to  appear  so  barren?  She  looked  at  her  mother's 
face;  it  was  flushed  with  childish  annoyance,  just  as 
it  had  been  about  three  years  ago  when  a  perfectly 
satisfactory  housemaid  gave  notice  because  she  was 
going  to  be  married.  Since  then  she  could  remem- 
ber nothing  that  had  so  disconcerted  her  mother, 
except  when  once  Denton  shut  the  corner  of  the  new 
fur  carriage-rug  into  the  hinge  of  the  motor-door. 
On  both  these  previous  occasions  she  had  been  im- 
pressed with  the  magnitude  of  the  moment;  now 
she  felt  slightly  inclined  to  laugh.  Even  if  the  un- 
thinkable, the  supreme  disaster  happened,  and  they 
did  not  lunch  at  all,  would  the  world  come  com- 
pletely to  an  end? 

But  a  second  glance  at  her  mother's  face  checked 
her  tendency  to  laugh,  and  encouraged  a  feeling  that 
was  quite  as  novel  to  her.  She  felt  suddenly  and 
overwhelmingly  sorry  that  this  drive,  this  lunch 
which  her  mother  had  planned  with  such  care  and 
with  such  pleased  anticipation  of  comfort,  should 
have  disappointed  her.  It  was  like  a  child's  dis- 
appointment over  the  breakage  of  a  toy  or  the  non- 
fulfilment  of  some  engaging  expedition.  There  was 
laughter  in  her  heart  no  longer;  only  a  tenderness, 
a  commiseration  that  sympathized  in  womanly  fash- 
ion with  a  childish  trouble. 

It  is  darkest  before  dawn,  and  this  Cimmerian 
gloom,  composed  of  puncture  and  the  absence  of  a 
possible  luncheon  place,  began  to  lift.  Denton  was 
handy  with  his  tools ;  the  sheep  were  herded  through 
a  gate  into  a  field  by  the  roadside,  so  that  when 


COMFORTABLE  PLANS  103 

they  went  on  again  there  was  no  further  passage 
through  the  flock  to  be  negotiated.  Goring  streamed 
swiftly  by  them,  and  hardly  were  they  quit  of  its 
outlying  houses  when  a  soft  stretch  of  grass  by  the 
roadside,  uncontaminated  by  tramp  and  untenanted 
by  child,  spread  itself  before  their  eyes.  And  Mrs. 
Hancock,  as  she  finished  the  last  jam  puff,  was  more 
beaming  than  the  sun  of  this  lovely  May  afternoon. 

'Tm  not  sure  that  it  was  not  worth  while  going 
through  all  these  annoyances  and  delays,"  she  said, 
"to  have  found  such  a  lovely  place  and  to  have  en- 
joyed our  lunch  so  much.  I  was  afraid  the  jam 
might  have  run  out  of  the  puffs;  but  it  was  as  safe 
as  if  they  had  just  come  up  from  the  kitchen.  I 
wish  Edward  was  here  to  have  enjoyed  it  with  us. 
You  must  tell  him  what  a  good  lunch  we  had!" 

And  Edith  found  her  mother's  enjoyment  as  ten- 
derly pathetic  as  her  disappointment  had  been. 


CHAPTER   V 

COMFORTABLE   SETTLEMENTS 

Edward  Holroyd  had  arranged  to  go  down  to  Bath 
for  a  certain  Saturday  till  Monday,  some  fortnight 
after  the  safe  arrival  there  (on  the  stroke  of  five) 
of  Mrs.  Hancock's  motor.  He  had  spent  a  couple  of 
rather  lonely  weeks  at  Heathmoor  since  the  de- 
parture of  his  neighbours,  and  he  was  pleased  to 
find  how  much  he  missed  Edith.  His  failure  to 
achieve  poignant  emotion  over  his  engagement  had 
troubled  him;  he  was  distressed  about  the  indo- 
lence of  his  temperament.  He  had  never  yet  seen 
a  girl  whom  he  so  much  admired  and  liked,  but  the 
very  fact  that  he  w-as  able  to  contemplate  her  image 
and  tell  himself  how  charming  she  was,  seemed  to 
him  part  of  that  failure.  She  afi"ected  him  with  the 
same  degree  of  emotion  that  a  spring  morning  or 
a  melodious  song  stirred  in  him.  He  could,  while 
basking  in  her  charm,  tell  himself  that  he  basked; 
he  was  not  by  the  exquisitiveness  of  the  conditions 
rendered  in  the  least  oblivious  of  himself;  his  sensa- 
tions had  not  any  overpowering  mastery  over  him. 
Duly  he  sat  and  thought  about  her  when  he  got 
home  in  the  evening  from  his  day  in  the  City,  duly 
and  honestly  he  told  himself  how  delightful  her  per- 
petual presence  would  be  to  him.  But  he  did  not 
dream  and  doat;  he  never  lost  himself  in  haze  of 
rapture;  he  was  not  blinded  by  any  intolerable 
brightness.  But  he  wanted  immensely  to  see  her 
again;  he  missed  her  as  much  as  he  was  capable  of 

104 


COMFORTABLE  SETTLEMENTS     105 

missing  anything.  But  his  industry  at  his  office 
and  his  appetite  at  his  dinner  were  wholly  un- 
affected, though  they  would  quite  certainly  have 
been  impaired  if  for  any  reason  his  engagement  had 
been  broken  off.  She  was  the  nicest  girl  he  had 
ever  seen,  and  in  the  autumn  she  was  going  to  marry 
him. 

To-night,  on  the  eve  of  his  departure  to  Bath,  he 
reminded  himself  many  times  of  his  great  good  for- 
tune. He  had  known  friends  who  had  suffered  the 
torments  of  the  lost  over  the  obduracy  or  the  in- 
difference of  girls  whom  they  wanted  to  marry,  and 
his  sympathy  with  such  men  was  tinged  with  jeal- 
ousy that  they  felt  so  keenly.  She  had  been  neither 
indifferent  nor  obdurate;  she  had  at  once  granted 
him  his  heart's  desire.  And  then  he  faced  the  ques- 
tion that  arose  out  of  his  fortunate  situation. 
Would  he  have  suffered  unutterable  torments  if  she 
had  refused  him?    He  knew  he  would  not. 

The  night  was  warm;  a  full  moon  rode  high  in 
an  unclouded  heaven ;  and  he  let  himself  out  of  the 
French  windows  of  his  drawing-room  into  the  small 
lawn  behind  the  house.  A  windless  calm  reigned, 
and  the  shadow  of  the  trees  that  bounded  his  lawn 
fell  in  sharp  unwavering  outlme  on  the  dewy  grass. 
Next  door  the  black  mass  of  Mrs.  Hancock's  house, 
unpierced  by  any  lights  except  the  small  illuminated 
square  from  servants'  rooms  in  the  top  story,  stood 
with  blinds  drawn  down  over  the  windows,  solid, 
concrete,  comfortable,  a  brick  and  mortar  rendering 
of  the  ordered  life  that  was  lived  there.  No  roofs, 
he  felt  sure,  leaked;  no  windows  stuck;  no  door 
squealed  on  its  hinges ;  and  its  inhabitants,  whom  he 
knew  so  well,  to  whom  he  was  so  sincerely  attached, 
were  equally  strangers  to  squealing  and  leaking. 
Soul  and  body  they  were  watertight;  undesirable 
emotions  no  more  percolated  into  their  souls  than 


106  ARUNDEL 

did  rainwater  into  their  roofs;  they  stood  with  their 
well-built  walls  cool  in  summer  and  warm  in  win- 
ter; their  windows  never  rattled  when  gales  bugled 
outside.  And  he  himself,  he  knew  also,  was  in  the 
same  excellent  state  of  repair;  it  was  a  characteristic 
of  Heathmoor  to  be  in  an  excellent  state  of  repair. 
They  all  stood  like  that,  side  by  side  in  detached 
residences,  with  small  though  charming  gardens  be- 
hind. 

For  the  moment  he  was  in  revolt  against  this 
deadly  respectability;  then,  with  a  comical  despair, 
he  knew  that  he  was  not  even  in  revolt.  He  could 
not  do  more  than  imagine  being  in  revolt.  Rightly 
or  wrongly,  he  connected  all  this  well-ordered  com- 
fort, those  eggs  and  bacon  for  breakfast  and  but- 
tered toast  for  tea  with  his  inability  to  feel  keenly. 
Life  had  never  stung  or  prodded  him  any  more  than 
it  appeared  to  have  stung  or  prodded  ^Irs.  Hancock; 
and  that  she  could  be  stung  or  prodded  by  anything 
was  beyond  the  bounds  of  the  most  fantastic  imagi- 
nation. There  were  no  wasps'  nests  in  all  Heath- 
moor;  the  gardens  were  too  well  looked  after.  And 
there  were  no  psychical  wasps  or  gadflies  either;  the 
gospel  of  Mr.  JNIartin,  preached  so  regularly  and  con- 
vincingly every  Sunday,  made  it  a  sin  to  be  other- 
wise than  cheerful  and  contented  and  well-fed.  No 
disturbing  influence  ever  came  down  in  those  first- 
class  carriages;  not  even  Mrs.  Grundy  ever  paid 
them  a  visit;  she  left  her  own  dear  children  to  look 
after  themselves  with  a  complete  and  untroubled 
confidence  in  their  good  behaviour. 

As  for  Edward,  his  conduct  had  from  boyhood 
upwards  been  such  as  to  justify  that  lady's  ab- 
sence. In  life  he  was  a  natural  Grundyite,  indis- 
posed to  the  venial  if  unjustifiable  violences  of 
youth,  not  so  much  from  a  lack  of  vitality  or,  on  the 
other  hand,  from  high  principle,  but  from  a  sheer, 


COMFORTABLE  SETTLEMENTS     107 

innate  respectability  which  beat  in  his  blood.  He 
had  been  one  of  those  boys  who  never  have  given 
their  parents  a  moment's  anxiety,  not  from  any  stern 
sense  of  right  behaviour,  but  because  he  was  that 
exceedingly  rare  product  in  a  world  that  is  almost 
entirely  composed  of  exceptions — a  perfectly  normal 
young  man,  one,  that  is,  who  lies  just  about  upon 
the  mean  which  is  fixed  resultantly  by  contending 
forces.  He  was  that  lusus  natura;,  an  average 
young  man,  a  sport,  an  exception,  a  rare  variety  (to 
be  collected  by  the  Mr.  Beaumont  of  human  moths), 
an  instance  in  himself  of  the  average,  whicli  in  the 
sum  is  made  up  of  qualities  of  specimens,  none  of 
which  is  average.  He  was  in  life  and  conduct  what 
the  average  young  man  is  supposed  to  be  and,  in  the 
mass,  not  indivickially,  is.  He  was  neither  milksop 
nor  adventurer,  neither  cehbate  by  nature  nor  de- 
bauchee. He  was  not  miserly  with  money  or  spend- 
thrift, neither  devout  nor  irreligious.  In  two  points 
only  did  he  depart  from  the  perfect  specimen  of  the 
average:  he  was  exceedingly  good-looking,  and  he 
had  been  a  dreamer,  though  his  dream  blossoms  as 
yet  had  borne  no  fruit.  Indeed,  as  has  been  already 
stated,  he  had  largely  acquiesced  in  their  barrenness, 
and  in  the  matter  of  the  ideal  She  had  shaken  him- 
self awake.  Round  one  subject  only  did  they  linger, 
that  was  music,  in  regard  to  which,  so  far  as  he  per- 
formed at  all,  he  was  so  atrocious  a  practitioner. 

It  was  long  past  midnight  as  he  stood  there  in 
his  garden  and  surveyed  the  solidity  of  the  house 
next  door,  and  the  novelty  (to  him)  of  his  reflec- 
tions about  it  had  been  perhaps  induced  by  his  lis- 
tening that  night  to  that  out  of  which  his  dreams 
were  made,  for  he  had  just  come  back — motoring 
down  in  great  comfort — from  a  performance  at  the 
opera  of  the  "Gotterdammerung."  All  evening  he 
had  been  wrapped  and  absorbed  in  the  immense 


108  ARUNDEL 

tragedy  of  its  portentous  people,  and  just  now  they 
and  their  woes  and  their  loves  seemed  to  hira  more 
real,  more  essentially  existent  than  all  the  actual  and 
tangible  things  with  which  he  was  surrounded.  They 
were  the  substance  of  which  this  moonlight,  this 
square  house  next  door,  the  remembrance  of  Edith 
even,  were  but  the  shadows  of  the  spaces  they 
moved  among,  even  as  the  shadows  on  the  grass 
were  but  an  accident  of  light  occurring  to  the  trees 
that  cast  them.  On  such  a  night  after  the  uproar  of 
cosmic  cataclysm  the  moon  shone  on  the  waters  of 
the  Rhine  with  their  restored  treasure;  through  a 
hundred  and  a  thousand  such  nights  Brunnhilde 
slept  below  her  breast-plate  on  the  mouiUain-top, 
maiden,  but  goddess  no  more,  till  to  Siegfried's  soul 
she  resumed  a  nobler  divinity.  .  .  .  And  that  divine 
duet,  with  its  webs  of  melody  passing  through  and 
through  it  like  a  shuttle  of  pure  light,  was  but  the 
expression  of  love,  such  love  as  it  had  been  given  to 
man  to  feel,  since  a  man  wrote  and  recorded  it.  It 
was  such  music  now  that  his  soul  should  be  making 
when  he  thought  of  Edith.  But  he  knew  that  no 
such  frenzy  of  fire  inspired  him;  if  his  soul  sang  it 
was  but  a  cheerful  little  tune,  aihnirably  adapted 
to  the  tlomestic  hearth.  And  that  was  the  best 
music  he  could  make.  Anyhow,  it  had  no  wrong 
notes  in  it;  it  had  no  wild  cadences  or  broken  and 
sobbing  rhythms.  It  was  just  a  cheerful  little  tune 
such  as  they  sang  in  church  about  morning  gilding 
the  skies.  You  only  had  to  substitute  "moon"  for 
"morning"  .  .  .  and  you  were  as  jolly  and  com- 
fortable as  possible. 

Edward  began  to  be  aware  that  his  brain  was  dic- 
tating thoughts  which  his  conscious  mind  did  not 
endorse.  They  resembled  the  tissue  of  confused 
images  which  lie  on  the  borderland  which  intervenes 
between  the  sheer  incoherence  of  sleeping  dreams 


COMFORTABLE  SETTLEMENTS     109 

and  the  drowsiness  which  precedes  it.  But  there 
was  an  uneasy,  though  only  momentary,  wonder  in 
his  mind  whether  these  disordered  images  sprang  not 
from  the  poppy  soil  of  sleep  but  from  a  gradually 
awakening  brain,  whether  they  were  not  the  light 
at  the  end  of  a  tunnel  rather  than  the  dimness  of 
its  entrance.  The  cool  cells  of  thought  had  grown 
feverish  with  the  excitement  of  the  drama  he  had 
just  seen  ...  or  had  they  begun  to  stir  to  their  own 
proper  activity?  Which  was  real,  in  fact,  the  white 
cool  flame  of  the  moonlight  as  it  shone  on  still  trees 
and  dewy  grass,  or  the  song  of  Siegfried,  which 
burned  the  sunset  air  and  blinded  with  rapture  the 
eyes  of  Brunnhilde,  when  she  woke,  goddess  no 
more,  and  by  that  the  more  divine? 

Heathmoor,  the  essential  spirit  of  Heathmoor,  in 
the  incarnation  of  the  striking  of  the  clock  at  the 
livery  stables,  came  to  his  rescue,  for  it  unmis- 
takably reminded  him  that  the  hour  was  two  in  the 
morning — a  time  which  probably  occurred  every 
night,  but  a  time  of  which  the  evidence  was  a  matter 
of  inference  rather  than  experience.  He  hailed  it 
as  a  navigator  driving  before  the  wind  in  rock-sown 
and  dangerous  waters  might  hail  a  harbour  light 
that  betokened  an  inlet  in  a  wave-beaten  and  inex- 
orable chff.  He  could  "put  in,"  and  escape  from 
these  threats  of  wave-crest  and  storm.  It  was  long 
past  the  proper  time  to  go  to  bed,  or,  in  Heathmoor 
phrase,  he  would  "never"  get  up  in  the  morning. 

But  that  waiting  in  the  still  moonlight  shadowed 
by  the  unwavering  trees  had  been  a  moment  of 
revelation.  A  little  light,  coming  from  the  realms 
of  music  where  alone  his  imagination  worked,  had 
been  bUnked  into  the  windows  of  the  dark  and  tidy 
room  where  otherwise  he  lived.  It  was  like  a  dis- 
tant lightning  flash  coming  at  night  to  a  room  where 
in  a  cool  clean  bed  a  man  lay  drowsy  but  awake. 


110  ARUNDEL 

He  wondered  whether  the  storm  would  move  nearer. 
And  before  he  slept  he  wondered  whether  Edith 
would  understand.  She  knew  he  was  "fond  of  mu- 
sic," Would  she  understand  that  "fond  of  music" 
was  a  mere  phrase  of  nonsense  if  meant  to  convey 
what  it  held  for  him? 

He  fell  into  a  slightly  priggish  sleep. 

He  arrived  at  the  admirable  Star  Hotel  at  Bath 
next  afternoon,  and  found  a  room  had  been  engaged 
for  hun  by  Mrs.  Hancock,  who,  with  Edith,  wel- 
comed him  at  the  station.  He  had  been  uncertain 
whether  he  was  her  guest  or  not,  but  she  at  once  put 
and  end  to  all  doubt  on  this  point  by  telling  him 
that  she  had  bargained  with  the  managor  on  his 
behalf,  and  that  he  had  granted  him  the  reduced 
terms  on  which  she,  making  a  long  stay,  was  enter- 
tained, which  saved  him  half-a-crown  a  day,  and 
included  the  unlimited  use  of  the  bathroom.  Of 
course  he  would  use  their  sitting-room  quite  freely, 
just  as  if  it  was  his  own. 

"And  I  can't  tell  you  how  pleased  I  am  to  see 
you,  dear  Edward,"  she  said,  laying  a  cordial  hand 
on  his  knee.  "We  will  have  tea  at  once,  as  my  bath 
is  at  half-past  five,  and  I  like  to  reach  the  establish- 
ment a  full  ten  minutes  before  the  hour,  and  so 
after  tea  you  and  Edith  will  be  left  to  your  own 
devices.  What  a  lot  you  will  have  to  tell  each  other, 
for  it's  a  fortnight  and  three  days  since  we  left 
home,  though  I'm  sure  it  doesn't  seem  more  than  a 
week.  Ellis  sends  us  a  bundle  of  asparagus  every 
morning,  and  says  it  will  last  another  ten  days  at 
least.  They  are  most  civil  about  having  it  cooked, 
and  don't  charge  a  penny  for  it  or  for  giving  melted 
butter  with  it.  I  quite  expected  they  would  charge 
for  the  melted  butter!" 

This  seemed  to  be  the  sum  of  ]VIrs.  Hancock's 
news,  and  shortly  after  tea  (she  had  brought  her 


COMFORTABLE  SETTLEMENTS     111 

own  tea  with  her,  which,  perhaps,  served  to  coun- 
terbalance the  munificence  of  the  management  as 
regards  the  melted  butter)  she  went  off  to  her  bath, 
leaving  the  two  together. 

Edward  had  occupied  a  chair,  while  Edith  sat  on 
the  sofa;  now  he  came  beside  her. 

"Well?"  he  said,  capturing  her  hand. 

Edith  looked  at  him  as  she  had  never  looked  be- 
fore; her  eyes  sought  and  held  and  embraced  him. 

"Tell  me  all  you  have  been  doing,"  she  said,  "es- 
pecially the  little  things.  I  think  the  httle  things 
matter  most.    They  are  more  intimate." 

"But  I  want  your  news,"  said  he. 

She  flushed  a  little. 

"I  have  wanted  you,"  she  said  simply.  "What  a 
little  thing!" 

Not  till  then  did  he  understand  the  change  that 
had  come  over  her  in  this  last  fortnight — the  change 
that  concerned  him  alone.  It  was  clear  that  the 
music  which  her  soul  made  was  no  cheerful  little 
chant.  Inarticulate,  it  sang  and  soared.  A  little  of 
that  fire  leaped  across  to  him,  kindling  him. 

"That  was  sweet  of  you!"  he  said.  "But  it  makes 
me  feel  rather  nervous.  What  if  you  are  disap- 
pointed?" 

She  came  a  little  closer  to  him. 

"I've  got  an  awful  confession  to  make!"  she  said. 
"When — when  you  asked  me  first,  I  was  so  pleased 
and  glad,  but  I  didn't  care.  Not  care.  But  since 
then "    She  looked  up  at  him. 

"I  care  so  much,"  she  said.  "And  I  want  to  be 
worthy.  You  have  such  fine  thoughts,  Edward, 
thoughts  so  much  above  me.  I've  always  known 
that,  but  now  that  I  care  for  you  I  realize  it.  When 
you  play,  for  instance,  you  are  hearing  things  I  am 
deaf  to,  seeing  visions,  perhaps,  that  I  am  blind  to. 


112  ARUNDEL 

But  I  do  want  to  learn.  Will  you  teach  me?  No- 
body but  you  can  teach  me." 

Her  confession  ennobled  her;  he  saw  a  glimpse 
of  her  far  above  him.  All  the  years  that  he  had 
known  her  he  had  thought  that  there  was  nothing 
up  high  like  that.  But  it  had  always  been  there;  it 
wanted  but  the  sun  and  wind  of  love  to  part  the 
cloud  and  show  the  shining  peaks.  Human  peaks, 
divine  peaks,  the  highlands  of  dawning  love.  She 
was  beginning  to  realize  for  herself,  quite  easily, 
quite  without  effort  all  that  he  lacked,  all  that  in 
the  vague  dream  of  his  youth  he  believed  to  lie 
outside  of  him.  Already  she  was  there,  her  foot 
on  the  eternal  snows,  bathed  in  the  eternal  sunshine. 
The  commonest  and  greatest  miracle  of  all  was  in 
process  within ;  the  waterpots  were  already  redden- 
ing with  the  true  grape. 

"I  never  guessed,"  she  said.  "And,  oh,  Edward, 
if  only  caring  made  me  less  stupid!  But  be  patient 
with  me  and  wait  for  me  to  learn.  I  shall  be  able 
to  learn  if  you  will  teach  me.  There  is  a  whole 
great  world  round  me,  full  of  splendour  and  beauty, 
which  somehow  doesn't  come  in  one's  way  at  Heath- 
moor.  I  think" — and  she  laughed — 'T  think  the 
asparagus,  so  to  speak,  shuts  it  out.  But  it  is  there; 
it's  everywhere.  You  took  me  right  up  to  it,  and 
even  then  I  didn't  recognize  it  at  once.  Now  I  am 
beginning  to  recognize  it.  I  get  ghmpses  of  it,  any- 
how." 

This  was  near  enough  to  the  dream-thoughts  that 
had  come  to  him  last  night  as  he  looked  at  the 
square  house  next  door  to  enable  him  to  join  her. 
But  she,  who  besought  him  to  teach  her,  spoke  au- 
thentically of  what  she  had  seen ;  he,  the  teacher, 
but  babbled  and  halted  over  things  imagined  and 
not  realized. 

"Ah,  that  is  so  much  what  I  felt  last  night,"  he 


COMFORTABLE  SETTLEMENTS     113 

said.  "I  went  to  the  'Gotterdammerung'  in  town, 
and  when  I  came  back  I  stood  in  the  garden,  and 
all  that  you  say  was  in  my  mind.  There  is  a  splen- 
did world  round  us,  and  too  much  asparagus.  I 
don't  mean " 

She  guessed  just  what  he  stopped  himself  from 
saying. 

"But  mother  is  such  a  dear,"  she  said.  "I  love 
her  comfortable  little  plans.  They  are  as  touching 
as  a  child's.  I  wouldn't  spoil  her  pleasure  for  any- 
thing. Tell  me  about  tlie  'Gotterdiimmerung' ;  it  is 
all  that  which  I  want  to  learn.  There's  love  in  it, 
and  tragedy,  all  big.  iMusic  says  what  you  feel. 
Isn't  that  it?  I  can  see  it  does  to  you  when  you 
play.  And  what  music  says  to  you,  you,  the  fact 
of  you,  say  to  me." 

Yet  he  felt  this  was  exactly  the  same  girl  whom 
he  had  long  known,  comfortable,  pleasant,  pretty. 
The  change  was  but  the  change  that  happens  to  a 
plant  when  the  spike  of  blossoms  shoots  upwards 
from  its  heart,  and  was  not  so  much  change  as 
growth.  She  had  shot  up,  far  away  ahead  of  him 
with  her  budding  stem,  and  all  the  time  she  thought 
she  was  reaching  up  to  him.  And  he,  gratified  and 
a  little  embarrassed,  thought  so,  too. 

**You  mustn't  say  such  things  to  me,"  he  said. 
"It  makes  me  feel  as  if — as  if  you  had  put  me  on 
a  pedestal,  somehow.  But  it  is  true,  that  music  says 
to  me  things  which  turn  into  ideas,  longings,  aspira- 
tions. But,  so  far  from  me  teaching  you  what  it 
means,  it  is  you  who  have  got  to  teach  me.  It  is 
you  who  are  the  explanation  of  it  all.  Don't  you 
see " 

He  stopped  a  moment,  trying  hitnself  to  grasp 
the  thought  which  eluded  him.  So,  at  least,  he 
imagined  to  himself;  in  reality  he  sought  the  fire 
that  should  kindle  him.    And  fire  of  a  sort  was  not 


114  ARUNDEL 

hard  to  find,  for  they  sat  alone  together,  and  she, 
whom  he  Uked  and  admired,  clung  to  hhn.  He 
kissed  her  and  found  himself  nearer  to  passion  than 
he  had  ever  been  yet. 

"It  must  have  been  you  that  I  was  looking  for," 
he  said. 

Again  in  her  the  tremulous  flame  of  a  girl's  first 
love  shot  up,  fed  with  the  new  fuel.  Then,  by  a 
sudden  impulse,  she  got  up  and  stood  a  little  away 
from  him,  passing  her  hand  over  her  eyes. 

"I  feel  as  if  it  can't  be,"  she  said,  "and  yet  when 
you  say  it  is,  I  can't  disbeheve  you.  But  are  you 
sure?" 

He  got  up  also. 

"I  tell  you  the  truth  when  I  say  that  I  never  cared 
like  this  before,"  he  said.  "All  that  I  know  of  love 
is  yours;  you  lit  it." 

She  looked  at  him  mutely,  inquiring,  scrutinizing. 
Something  within  her  wanted  more,  wanted  a  con- 
viction that  she  had  not  yet  got.  It  was  as  if  there 
was  still  some  closed  chamber  in  her  heart  that  was 
not  yet  flooded ;  the  tide  did  not  flow  freely  through- 
out her.  And  for  that  moment's  space  she  won- 
dered if  he,  too,  was  in  the  same  incomplete  stress 
of  emotion,  if  the  entire  abandonment  which  she 
knew  she  lacked  held  off  from  him. 

For  a  moment  only  the  doubt  lasted,  the  next  it 
was  enough  for  her  that  so  much  was  hers  already; 
the  unfolding  of  love  was  at  work  on  the  petals  of 
her  girlhood,  and  she  did  not  even  desire  to  hurry 
the  hour  of  full-blowing. 

That  for  the  present  was  the  apex  of  the  mounting 
flame  in  her,  which  made  the  air  round  it  quiver 
and  glow,  so  that  its  heat  and  radiance  were  begin- 
ning to  touch  with  lambency  all  the  common  things 
of  every  day  around  her,  transforming  them,  as  by 
the  light  of  an  Indian  sunset,  into  opalescent  bright- 


COMFORTABLE  SETTLEMENTS    115 

nesses.  Already  to  her  the  sun  was  of  a  wider  light, 
the  wind  of  May  more  caressing,  the  fields  greener, 
the  faces  she  passed  in  the  street  lit  with  a  happiness 
and  a  humanity  she  had  never  noticed  before.  She 
saw  and  heard  and  apprehended  all  that  touched  her 
senses  with  a  greater  vividness;  the  paper  she  read 
from  to  Mrs.  Hancock  when  she  rested  after  her 
bath  had  a  new  significance,  and  as  she  conned  aloud 
the  list  of  surnames  of  those  who  had  been  born, 
married,  and  died — which  was  the  opening  chapter 
of  the  daily  lecture,  in  case  her  mother  knew  any 
of  them — she  found  herself  wondering  about  the  his- 
tory of  their  loves.  The  most  commonplace  events 
filled  her  with  reflections  which,  though  dehghtfully 
commonplace  themselves,  were  utterly  new  to  her 
as  material  for  thought.  If  the  Prime  Minister 
went  to  Balmoral — the  kind  of  news  that  was  par- 
ticularly gratifying  to  Mrs.  Hancock — Edith  now 
was  interested  in  it,  not  from  wonder — like  her 
mother — as  to  what  they  would  say  to  each  other, 
but  because  before  the  Prime  Minister  was  a  baby 
in  his  cradle,  a  man  and  a  woman  had  looked  with 
eyes  of  dawning  love  on  each  other.  The  whole 
world  was  vivified,  a  keener  pleasure  infused  the 
common  actions  of  life,  she  ate  and  drank  with  a 
new  savour,  she  went  to  sleep  with  a  more  luxurious 
sense  of  that  drowsy  gulf,  and,  above  all,  she  awoke 
with  welcome  for  the  day.  She  joined  every  morn- 
ing the  ranks  of  those  living  and  sentient  things  to 
whom  the  knowledge  of  love  had  come;  she  was 
struggling,  yet  the  struggle  was  effortless,  as  if  a 
new  force  invading  her  soul  did  the  battle  for  her — 
on  to  the  level  of  real  existence,  leaving  the  desert 
for  fertile  lands.  She  read  the  secret  in  the  eyes  and 
mouths  of  those  she  met  in  the  street,  for  they  knew 
it,  even  as  did  the  wind  and  the  sun,  and  the  stars 
that  wheeled.     Sometimes  she  spoke  of  this  new 


116  ARUNDEL 

thing  to  her  mother,  who  must  be  among  the  initi- 
ated, and  then  the  wing  of  comedy  shed  a  feather  as 
it  passed.  Mrs.  Hancock's  reminiscences  of  her 
beautiful  days  were  of  the  nature  of  pressed  flowers; 
it  seemed  that  their  fragrance  had  departed,  though 
they  retained  their  outward  form. 

"Your  father  was  a  very  handsome  young  man, 
dear,"  she  would  say — "very  handsome,  indeed,  with 
a  rather  bluish  chin,  for  at  that  time  he  had  no 
beard.  I  don't  think  there  can  ever  have  been  a 
more  poetical  lover,  and  scarcely  a  day  passed  when 
he  did  not  bring  me  some  volume  of  Tennyson's 
early  poems,  or  Mr.  Browning's.  Edith,  if  you 
wt)uld  put  the  window  just  an  inch  more^ip  we  can 
talk.  Thank  you,  dear!  He  could  understand  all 
Mr.  Browning  wrote  about  different  ways  of  love, 
and  explained  it  most  beautifully.  There  was  'One 
Way  of  Love'  and  'Another  Way  of  Love,'  and  one 
of  them  happened  about  the  mifldle  of  June.  I 
learned  that  one  by  heart  in  order  to  please  him. 
He  usetl  to  say  the  most  wonderful  of  all  was  'By 
the  Fireside,'  which  was  in  November;  but  that  was 
after  they  married.  Oh,  look,  dear;  what  a  tire- 
some dog!  Some  day  it  will  be  run  over,  and  it 
won't  be  Denton's  fault.  Your  father  was  very  jeal- 
ous, and,  though  I  hope  you  will  never  give  Edward 
any  cause  for  that  any  more,  I  am  sure,  than  I  did, 
men  are  like  that  sometimes,  and  they  don't  seem  to 
be  able  to  help  it.  He  was  quite  devoted  to  me,  so 
it  sprang  from  a  good  cause.  Yes,  he  used  to  read 
Mr.  Browning's  poems,  though  he  was  very  fond  of 
Mrs.  Browning's  too.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Browning! 
What  a  lot  of  poetry  they  must  have  read  to  each 
other — all  made  up  by  themselves !  I  wonder  if  she 
understood  it  as  well  as  your  father!  He  never 
found  any  diflBculty  about  carrying  on  the  sense  be- 
tween the  lines,  which  I  think  is  the  hardest  part. 


COMFORTABLE  SETTLEMENTS     117 

And  to  think  that  now  you  are  going  through  the 
same  happy  time!  Darling,  look,  it  is  half-past 
three;  and  we  must  turn  at  once,  else  we  shall  never 
get  home  in  time  for  tea.  Will  you  tell  Denton 
down  the  tube  to  turn  as  soon  as  he  possibly  can? 
When  we  get  home  I  will  let  you  read  the  copies  of 
Mr.  Browning's  poems  which  your  father  gave  me. 
Have  you  heard  from  Edward  this  morning?  When 
he  comes  I  shall  have  to  talk  to  him  about  busi- 
ness." 

This  business  talk,  which,  so  far  as  Mrs.  Han- 
cock was  concerned,  followed  on  the  lines  which  she 
had  laid  down  for  herself  in  the  matter  of  allowance 
for  Edith,  took  place  next  morning.  He  had  sug- 
gested the  more  usual  course  that  their  respective 
solicitors  should  represent  their  clients'  views  to  each 
other,  but  Mrs.  Hancock  preferred  a  personal  and 
direct  interview.  She  felt  that  Edward,  who  was  so 
generous,  would  understand  the  somewhat  peculiar 
position  that  she  fully  intended  to  take  up,  whereas 
the  more  practical  and  less  sympathetic  mhid  of  a 
solicitor  might  not  see  things  in  so  romantic  a  light. 
So  Edith  was  informed  when  it  was  twenty  minutes 
to  eleven  and  time  that  she  should  put  her  hat  on, 
while  Edward  was  told  that  it  was  quite  excusable 
that  he  should  not  want  to  go  to  church  after  sit- 
ting in  an  airless  office  all  the  week.  But  it  was  a 
little  chilly,  and  she  asked  him  to  shut  completely 
the  window  of  the  sitting-room, 

''And  now,  dear  Edward,"  she  said,  "we  must  have 
a  little  business  talk,  which  I  am  sure  will  soon  be 
done,  since  I  am  as  certain  to  approve  of  your  plans 
about  Edith  as  you  are  to  approve  of  mine.  And 
then,  when  we  have  talked  it  over,  we  can  instruct 
our  solicitors,  and  they  will  draw  up  the  settlement. 
Please  smoke  a  cigarette;  you  will  be  more  com- 
fortable so.    There  we  are!" 


118  ARUNDEL 

Mrs.  Hancock,  indeed,  felt  perfectly  comfortable. 
She  had  pictured  her  plans  in  such  delicious  grand- 
motherly colours  to  herself  that  they  could  not  fail 
to  touch  Edward's  heart.  And  she  proceeded  to  lay 
them  before  him. 

"I  am  what  they  call  fairly  off,  my  dear,"  she 
said,  "and,  indeed,  I  put  by  a  little  every  year, 
though,  as  you  know,  to  do  that  I  live  extremely 
simply,  just  with  the  ordinary  little  comforts  of  life 
to  which  I  have  been  accustomed.  Now  at  my  death 
every  penny  of  my  fortune  will  go  to  Edith,  with 
the  exception  of  two  or  three  little  bequests  to 
servants.  At  present  it  is  something  over  a  hundred 
thousand  pounds.  You  and  Edith  will  ^njoy  that 
for  many,  many  years  after  I  am  gone." 

Mrs.  Hancofk  felt  as  if  she  was  making  some 
deed  of  tremendous  generosity;  the  sense  of  that 
and  the  allusion  to  her  own  death  caused  her  eyes 
to  stand  in  moisture,  which  she  wiped  away  with 
one  of  her  new  handkerchiefs,  which  were  so  ex- 
pensive. 

"But  I  am  beginning  at  the  end,"  she  said,  "and 
we  must  come  back  to  the  present.  I  mean,  dear 
Edward,  to  give  Edith  the  whole  of  her  trousseau. 
I  shall  be  very  much  vexed  with  you  if  you  want 
not  to  let  me  have  my  way  about  tliat.  Everything 
she  can  want,  and,  indeed,  much  more  than  I  ever 
had,  in  the  way  of  frt)cks  and  linen,  shall  be  hers, 
and  shall  be  paitl  for  by  me.  Put  your  cigarette  in 
your  mouth,  and  don't  think  of  interrupting  me." 

She  beamed  delightedly  at  him,  sure  that  had  she 
not  positively  forbiriden  it  he  would  have  protested 
against  her  munificence.  Munificence,  too,  she 
really  thought  it,  when  she  considered  how  much 
lace.  .  .  . 

"But  that  is  not  my  great  plan,"  she  said.  "I 
know  so  well,  wdthout  your  telling  me,  that  you  will 


COMFORTABLE  SETTLEMENTS     119 

shower  on  Edith  more  than  a  girl  accustomed  to  the 
simplicity  of  life  she  has  hitherto  led  can  possibly 
dream  of  spencHng,  and  so  I  have  thought  of  a  great 
expense  which,  please  God,  will  certainly  come  upon 
you  and  her,  which  you  have  not,  I  expect,  taken 
into  consideration.  Chilch'cn,  my  dear  Edward;  I 
want  it  to  be  my  pleasure  and  privilege  to  provide 
for  them,  and,  with  careful  management,  I  shall  be 
able  to  give  each  of  your  children  as  they  are  born 
the  sum  of  a  hundred  pounds,  and  on  every  one  of 
all  their  birthdays,  if  they  live  to  be  a  hundred,  fifty 
pounds  more!" 

To  Mrs.  Hancock's  ears  this  sounded  immense.  It 
is  true  that  her  original  plan  had  been  to  make  the 
yearly  birthday  gift  a  hundred  pounds  to  each  of 
them,  but  in  the  interval  between  forming  that  idea 
and  to-day  she  had  seen  that  such  a  scheme  would 
amount  to  a  lavish ncss  tliat  was  positively  unrea- 
sonable, if  not  actually  wrong.  It  is  true  that  it  was 
not  exactly  likely  that  she  would  continue  to  be  in  a 
position  to  shower  this  largess  on  children  that  were 
yet  unborn  for  a  hundred  years  after  their  birth,  un- 
less she  was  to  outrival  the  decades  of  old  Parr;  but 
the  sentence  sounded  well,  and  expressed,  though 
hyperbolically,  the  sumptuous  extent  of  her  inten- 
tions. But  she  had  to  climb  down  from  those  great 
heights,  and  proceeded  to  small  details. 

*'Take  another  cigarette,  Edward,"  she  said,  "or 
otherwise  you  will  be  arguing  with  me,  and,  as  I 
have  quite  made  up  my  mind,  there  would  be  no 
use  in  that.  My  dear,  I  am  a  very  determined  per- 
son when  once  my  mind  is  made  up,  and  I  shan't 
listen  to  your  remonstrances,  so  you  needn't  trouble 
to  make  them.  There!  I  can  afford  to  do  this,  and 
since  I  can,  I  am  determined  to.  Now,  as  regards 
smaller  matters,  I  know  you  are  very  well  off,  but 
I  want  to  spare  you  any  extra  expenses  that  I  pos- 


120  ARUNDEL 

sibly  can,  and  a  hundred  little  schemes  occur  to  me. 
I  send  myself  to  sleep  at  night  with  thinking  what 
I  can  take  on  my  shoulders,  for  I  assure  you  it  is  the 
little  drains  on  one's  purse  that  make  the  big  hole 
in  it,  so  in  the  first  place  let  me  tell  you  that  your 
motor  bills  for  tyres  and  petrol  needn't  be  a  penny 
more  after  your  marriage  than  they  are  to-day.  I 
intend  that  Edith — and  I  shall  tell  her  so — shall  con- 
sider my  car  as  hers,  in  exactly  the  same  manner  as 
she  has  always  considered  it  ours,  shall  we  say? 
Morning  and  afternoon,  whenever  she  feels  inclined, 
she  can  have  her  drive  with  me,  on  juy  tyres,  and 
on  vuj  petrol.  You  will  be  sure  when  you  are  away 
in  the  City  that  your  car  won't  be  scouring  all  over 
the  country,  eating  up  every  penny  you  make." 

There  is  a  psychical  phenomenon  known  as  sug- 
gestion, whereby  the  operator  produces  a  hypnotic 
effect  on  his  subject,  causing  his  mind  to  receive  and 
adopt  the  desired  attitude.  For  the  moment,  at  any 
rate,  ]\Irs,  Hancock  was  producing  this  effect  on  Ed- 
ward; her  own  sublime  conviction  that  she  was 
making  the  most  generous  provision  infected  him  as 
she  reeled  off  this  string  of  benefits.  But  there 
are  subtle  conditions  under  which  suggestion  acts, 
which,  perhaps,  she  did  not  appreciate,  for  at  this 
point  the  efi'ect  began  to  wear  off.  Probably  she 
should  have  stopped  there;  unfortunately  she  con- 
tinued. It  may  be  that  she  began  to  see  through 
herself,  and  thus  enabled  her  subject  to  see  through 
her. 

"Household  books,  too!"  she  said.  "You  have  no 
conception,  nor  has  Edith — for  it  takes  years  of 
careful  housekeeping  to  understand  all  about  it — 
you  have  no  conception  what  economies  can  be 
made  in  them,  nor,  if  you  do  not  practise  them,  what 
a  tremendous  drain  they  are.  Let  us  say  that  Edith 
is  alone  for  lunch,  while  you  are  in  the  City,  and  she 


COMFORTABLE  SETTLEMENTS     121 

orders  a  fillet  of  sole,  and  a  cutlet,  with  some  French 
beans,  and  a  little  cherry  tart,  and  perhaps  a  peach 
to  finish  up  with,  for  dear  Edith  has  such  an  excel- 
lent appetite,  I  am  glad  to  say,  and  is  not  hke  so 
many  women  who,  when  they  are  alone,  have  a 
sandwich  on  a  tray  or  a  piece-of  cake,  and  find  them- 
selves getting  anaemic  and  run  down  in  consequence. 
Edith,  as  I  was  saying,  orders  a  decent  little  lunch 
like  what  she  is  accustomed  to,  every  day  like  that, 
when  she  is  alone,  and  at  the  end  of  the  week  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  her  lunches  had  cost  her  twenty- 
five  or  thirty  shillings.  Well,  I  want  to  spare  you  all 
that  expense;  there  will  be  lunch  for  Edith  every 
day  at  my  house,  so  that  all  the  household  books  for 
your  purse  will  be  a  couple  of  poached  eggs  in  the 
morning  and  a  plain  little  dinner  in  the  evening,  if 
you  want  to  be  alone  with  her.  Otherwise  you  can 
both  find  your  dinner,  and  such  a  warm  welcome, 
my  dear,  as  often  as  you  like  where  she  had  her 
lunch.  And  even  if  it  costs  me  another  gardener,  I 
am  determined  to  have  my  croquet-lawn  as  good 
as  a  croquet-lawn  can  be,  and  you  can  come  across 
and  play  on  it,  and  have  your  cup  of  tea  or  your 
whisky  and  soda  with  me  any  day  you  like.  I  mean 
to  turn  my  house  into  a  hotel  for  you  and  my  dar- 
ling, where  you  will  ask  for  whatever  you  like,  mo- 
tors and  what  not,  and  never  have  a  bill  sent  in  to 
you.  Everything  provided,  Edward,  all  the  year 
round,  and  the  warmest  welcome  from  the  old  pro- 
prietress. There!  I  don't  think  I  can  say  more 
than  that;  and  I  certainly  don't  mean  less.  About 
wedding  presents  I  shall  say  nothing,  because  1 
mean  them  to  be  a  surprise." 

But  the  suggestive  glamour  had  faded,  and  Ed- 
ward found  himself  adding  up  in  a  clear-sighted  and 
business-like  manner  what  this  all  amounted  to. 
Immediately  the  result  seemed  to  be  that  Mrs.  Han- 


122  ARUNDEL 

cock  would  have  Edith's  companionship  at  hinch 
and  in  her  drives,  and  that  he  could  play  croquet 
next  door.  Edith  the  day  before  had  alluded  to  her 
mother's  childlike  pleasure  in  her  plans,  but  it 
seemed  to  him  that  a  certain  power  of  parsimonious 
calculation  presided  over  their  childlikeness,  and  it 
was  not  without  a  sense  of  surprise  and  almost  of 
incredulity  that  he  marie  the  inference  that  Mrs. 
Hancock  had  no  intention  of  ^ivinpj  her  daughter 
any  allowance  or  of  settling  anything  on  her.  For 
himself,  he  could  not  by  any  stretch  of  malignant 
criticism  be  called  niggardly  or  close-handed,  and  he 
felt  justified  in  making  cjuite  sure  of  the  unlooked- 
for  situation. 

"Then  you  do  not  propose  to  settle  anything  on 
Edith,"  he  said,  "or  make  her  any  allowance?" 

He  knew  that  this  was  a  perfectly  proper  sug- 
gestion to  make,  that  the  absence  of  any  provision 
for  Edith  was  ludicrous,  yet  the  moment  he  had 
made  the  suggestion  he  was  sony.  He  understood 
also  what  EiUth  had  meant  by  "childlikeness,"  for 
Mrs.  Hancock's  face  changed  suddenly  from  its 
beaming  and  dehghted  aspect,  and  looked  pathetic, 
hurt,  misunderstood.  It  was  clear  that  she  had 
taken  the  sincerest  pleasure  in  devising  all  these 
dazzling  plans,  which  at  present,  anyhow,  cost  her 
nothing,  and  in  avoiding  any  direct  expenditure. 
She  had  quite  certainly  convinced  herself  of  her  own 
generosity,  and  of  the  unselfish  thought  and  in- 
genuity— which  caused  her  to  lie  awake  at  night — 
that  had  devised  those  schemes.  But  this  miserli- 
ness, the  ingenuity  of  which  was  so  perfectly  trans- 
parent to  anybody  else,  was  not,  he  felt  convinced, 
transparent  to  her.  Hurriedly  he  corrected  himself; 
it  was  as  if  he  had  unthinkingly  taken  a  toy  away 
from  a  child;  now*  he  made  the  utmost  haste  to  re- 


COMFORTABLE  SETTLEMENTS    123 

store  it,  to  anticipate  the  howl  in  preparation  for 
which  it  had  opened  its  mouth. 

"How  stupid  of  me!"  he  said.  "I  had  quite  for- 
gotten in  the  multitude  of  your  gifts  that  you  were 
providing  with  such  generosity  for  our  children.  Of 
course  you  do  that  instead  of  giving  money  to  Edith. 
I  think  that  is  a  delightful  })lan.  Why,  they  will 
all  he  heirs  aiui  heiresses  by  the  time  they  grow  up. 
And  tlie  lunches  and  drives  for  Edith,  too;  she  will 
never  be  lonely  while  I  am  away  in  town.  And  the 
croquet  and  everything.  I  never  heard  so  many  nice 
plans." 

He  knew  he  was  being  weak,  was  yielding  on 
points  on  which  he  really  had  no  business  to  yield, 
in  order  to  avoid  a  scene.  It  was  quite  ridiculous — 
and  he  was  aware  of  tliat  fact — to  treat  this  middle- 
aged  and  wideawake  woman  as  if  she  was  a  child, 
to  give  her  anything  to  prevent  her  howling,  but 
the  morality  of  the  matter  did  not  trouble  him  at 
all.  She  was  like  a  child;  he  saw  the  resemblance; 
but  no  less  striking  was  the  resemblance  to  a  selfish 
child,  or  to  a  very  miserly  grown-up  person.  He  did 
not  really  doubt  that  some  part  of  her  brain,  care- 
fully walled  up  and  sequestered,  knew  that  she  was 
acting  in  a  thoroughly  miserly  manner,  but  she  en- 
tirely refused  to  attend  to  that,  treating  it  as  we 
treat  some  involuntary  suggestion  of  a  disobedient 
mind,  putting  it  from  her  even  as  she  put  away 
secular  reflections  when  in  church,  and  indulging 
instead  and  painting  in  tender  but  vivid  colours  the 
image  of  the  beloved  old  granny — not  so  old,  either 
— incessantly  signing  the  most  sumptuous  cheques 
for  the  benefit  of  her  beloved  chicks,  or  looking  from 
the  drawing-room  window  on  to  the  velvet-napped 
croquet-lawn  where  Edward  stood  with  brimming 
whisky  and  soda,  while  Edith,  a  child  tugging  at 
her  skirts,  went  through  hoop  after  hoop.    She  loved 


124  ARUNDEL 

to  see  everybody  happy  round  her,  all  enjoying  the 
fruits  of  her  bounty,  and  if,  incidentally,  she  herself 
gained  a  companion  in  her  daily  drives,  at  any  rate 
Edith  would  not  sit  solitary  over  her  expensive  lunch 
while  Edward  was  in  town.  And  if,  in  reality,  she 
was  a  somewhat  selfish  person,  and  one  somewhat 
insincere,  how  much  more  comfortable  that  she 
should  think  that  slie  was  brinnning  with  kind  plans 
for  other  people,  when  as  a  matter  of  fact  she  was 
only  making  the  most  pleasing  schemes  for  herself. 
It  was  not  possible  entirely  to  agree  with  her  in  her 
estimate  of  lierself.  but  tliere  was  certainly  no  use 
in  (.listressing  her  by  letting  her  know  that  he  saw 
through  her.  She  had  hypnotized  herself^«-by  ex- 
cessive gazmg — into  her  creed  about  herself,  and 
any  dissension  from  it  was  only  likely  to  make  her 
think  that  the  dissentient  was  unkind,  not  shake  her 
belief  in  her  own  tender  benevolence.  She  started 
from  that  even  as  Euclid  starts  his  amazing  proposi- 
tions from  certain  postulates;  if  you  did  not  accept 
tlie  postulates  you  could  not  proceed  any  furtlier  in 
her  company. 

Normal  human  vanity  renders  complete  self- 
knowledge  impossil)le.  but  complete  self-bhndness  is 
almost  ecjually  uncommon,  and  at  the  very  back  of 
her  mind  Mrs.  Hancock  knew  very  well  that  she  was 
acting  in  a  manner  which,  if  occurring  in  anybody 
else,  she  would  have  unhesitatingly  labelled  mean. 
But  she  never  indulged  in  such  thoughts  about  her- 
self; she  turned  a  deliberate  back  upon  them,  for 
they  were  rankly  inconsistent  with  the  spirit  of 
cheerful  selfishness  which  was  the  key  to  her  charac- 
ter. She  shut  the  door  on  them  as  she  shut  it  on 
tales  of  misery  and  crmie,  ignoring  and,  if  neces- 
sary, denying  their  existence.  And  if  it  was  easy 
to  spoil  her  childlike  pleasures,  it  was  easy  also  to 
restore  them  in  all  their  .mtegrity,  and  Edward's 


COMFORTABLE  SETTLEMENTS     125 

assurance  that  he  had  never  heard  so  many  nice 
plans  was  amply  sufficient  for  her.  Again  her  well- 
favoured  face  beamed  witli  delighted  smiles. 

''I  thought  you  would  like  them,"  she  said,  shut- 
ting the  door  not  only  on  her  knowledge  of  her 
meanness,  but  on  his  also,  "and  you  have  no  idea 
what  a  pleasure  it  was  to  me  to  make  tiiem.  So, 
since  you  approve,  we  will  regard  my  share  of  the 
arrangements  as  settled.  And  now  for  your  part. 
I  am  certain  I  shall  be  as  satisfied  with  what  you  in- 
tend to  do  as  you  are  with  my  intentions.  But  be- 
fore we  go  on  you  must  tell  me  what  I  have  to  do. 
Must  I  have  a  deed  drawn  up?  Is  it  a  deed  they 
call  it?" 

He  was  careful  not  to  spoil  pleasure  this  time. 

"I  think  that  is  scarcely  necessary,"  he  said. 
"You  see  you  are — are  making  no  settlements  on 
Edith.  You  have  promised  to  do  certain  things  for 
our  children,  but  for  the  present,  anyhow " 

She  interrupted. 

"I  see,"  she  said,  "but  you  must  be  certain  to  tell 
me  whenever  it  is  necessary  for  me  to  have  a  deed 
drawn  up.  I  shall  be  always  ready  to  do  it,  and  to 
thank  you  for  reminding  me.    Well,  then." 

She  settled  herself  in  her  chair  with  an  air  of 
pleased  expectation,  and,  it  must  be  confessed,  a 
secret  gratification  that  she  had  not  got  to  "put  her 
name"  to  anything  at  all. 

"I  shall  draw  up  a  will,"  he  said,  "settling  the 
whole  of  my  property  on  Edith  in  trust  for  her  chil- 
dren, if  she  has  any,  and,  if  not,  for  her  use  during 
her  lifetime.  In  other  words,  she  will  enjoy  the  in- 
terest on  my  money,  though  the  property  itself  will 
be  in  the  hands  of  trustees.  It  amounts  at  present 
to  about  thirty  thousand  pounds." 

Edward  paused,  for  it  was  clear  that  Mrs.  Han- 
cock was  pondering  some  point. 


126  ARUNDEL 

"Let  me  thoroughly  understand,"  she  said.  "In 
case  of  your  death,  Edward,  without  children 
(though  it  really  is  quite  horrid  to  think  about  such 
a  thing),  if  she  wanted  to  build  herself  a  little  house, 
shall  we  say,  would  she  not  be  able  to  put  her  hand 
on  three  or  four  thousand  pounds?" 

"No.  She  would  have  the  income  from  my  money 
for  hfe." 

Mrs.  Hancock  was  almost  as  eager  to  secure  finan- 
cial advantages  for  Edith,  as  she  was  to  retain  her 
own  herself — almost,  not  quite. 

"But  she  would  find  it  difficult  to  live  in  a  suitable 
house,  tlie  sort  of  house  to  which  she  has  been  ac- 
customed, on  the  interest  of  thirty  thousand 
pounds,"  said  she. 

"Do  you  think  so?  It  means  about  fifteen  hun- 
dred a  year." 

"Yes,  I  know,  my  dear,  a  very  nice  pleasant  little 
income.  But  you  must  think  what  she  has  been 
accustomed  to,  for  I  must  say  that,  though,  as  you 
know,  I  live  very  simi)ly,  yet  I  have  never  grudged 
Edith  anything.  Think  if  she  was  ill!  A  long  illness 
is  so  terribly  expensive.  Would  it  not  be  better  to 
insure  your  life,  and  settle  that  on  her,  so  that  she 
could  have  a  little  fund  for  a  rainy  day?  I  know  my 
husband  insured  his  life  long  before  he  married  me." 

Edward  stiffened  a  little. 

"I  think,  then,  she  might  look  to  you  for  assist- 
ance," he  said. 

"Ah,  how  pleased  I  should  be  to  make  any  econo- 
mies for  her  sake,"  she  said,  with  feeling.  "But 
what  if  I  am  no  longer  here  to  help  her?" 

"In  that  case  she  will  have  all  your  money  in  her 
complete  command,"  he  remarked. 

This  was  undoubtedly  the  case,  and  it  was  not 
possible  to  pursue  that  particular  line  of  grabbing 


COMFORTABLE  SETTLEMENTS     127 

any  further.  She  smiled  at  him  not  quite  so  ten- 
derly. 

"My  dear,  how  sharp  the  City  makes  you  business 
men,"  she  observed. 

Heathmoor  seemed  to  have  done  pretty  well  in 
that  line  for  her,  but  he  did  not  draw  attention  to 
that. 

"I  don't  think  I  feel  inclined  to  make  any  further 
provision  over  that,"  he  said.  "Edith  is  coming  to 
me,  I  must  remind  you,  quite  portionless." 

A  sudden  resentment  at  her  attitude  seized  him. 

"Or  how  would  it  be  if  you  and  I  both  insured  our 
lives  for,  let  us  say,  ten  thousand  pounds,"  he  sug- 
gested, "and  settled  it  on  her?" 

Mrs.  Hancock  became  dignified. 

"At  my  death,"  she  said,  "she  already  comes  into 
a  considerable  fortune." 

"Very  well.  I  quite  agree  with  you  that  no  fur- 
ther provision  is  necessary." 

Mrs.  Hancock  had  not  much  liked  the  reminder 
that  Edith  came  portionless  to  him,  and  did  not 
want  that  section  of  the  argument — for  it  really  was 
becoming  an  argument — pursued  further.  She  re- 
treated into  her  stronghold  of  satisfaction  again. 

"And  now  about  the  allowance  you  will  make 
her?"  she  asked  genially. 

"I  was  proposing  to  give  her  two  hundred  and 
fifty  a  year  for  her  private  and  personal  expenses," 
he  said. 

Mrs.  Hancock's  smile  completely  faded. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "yes." 

"I  gather  from  your  tone  that  you  are  not  satis- 
fied?" said  he. 

There  was  a  short,  rather  unpleasant  pause.  Then 
she  assumed  an  air  of  confiding  candour. 

"I  did  expect,  dear  Edward,"  she  said,  "that  you 
would  make  a  rather  larger  allowance  than  that  for 


128  ARUNDEL 

her.  It  is  no  use  ray  denying  it.  And  would  you 
mind  not  smoking  another  cigarette  just  yet?  The 
air  is  getting  quite  thick.  Now,  just  as  you  have 
told  me  quite  frankly  what  you  think  of  my  pro- 
vision for  Edith,  so  I  will  tell  you.  There  is  noth- 
ing like  a  perfectly  frank  talk  for  getting  over  diffi- 
culties. AH  her  life  dear  Edith  has  had  a  very  hand- 
some allowance  from  me,  with  really  nothing  to 
spend  it  on  except  a  dress  or  a  pair  of  boots.  I 
don't  deny  that  I  have  often  stinted  myself  so  as 
not  to  stint  her,  hut  what  her  mother  has  done,  that, 
I  think,  her  husband  should  do.  I  don't  think  you 
consider  how  many  more  calls  a  married  woman  has 
on  her  purse  than  a  girl  living  at  home — aH  tlie  run- 
ning up  to  London  to  get  houseliold  necessities  for 
you,  all  the  greater  expenditure  on  dress  that  a  mar- 
ried woman  must  make  beyond  what  a  girl  requires. 
Indeed,  I  don't  see  how  Edith  can  manage  it  on  the 
sum  you  mention." 

Edward's  sympathy  with  Mrs.  Hancock's  child- 
like pleasure  evaporated.  He  thd  not  believe  for  a 
moment  that  tlie  "very  handsome  allowance"  given 
her  by  her  mother  amounted  to  anything  like  the 
sum  he  proposed.  He  knew  also  that  the  sum  he 
proposed  was  a  very  reasonable  one. 

*Tf  you  would  tell  me  how  much  she  has  hitherto 
spent,"  he  said.  *T  should  have  some  guide." 

This  Mrs.  Hancock  did  not  in  the  least  wish  to 
do. 

"I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  dear  Edith  is  extrava- 
gant," said  she,  "but  there  is  a  great  deal  of  differ- 
ence between  extravagance  and  counting  every 
penny.  There  has  been  no  need  for  her  to  do  that; 
she  is  not  accustomed  to  it." 

It  was  impossible  for  him  to  ask  her  point  blank 
what  Edith's  allowance  had  been ;  it  was  impossible 
also  to  ask  the  girl  herself.    He  could  not  do  such 


COMFORTA-RI.E  SETTLEMENTS     129 

things;  they  were  contrary  to  his  average  politeness 
of  behaviour. 

"It  is  true  that  when  I  settled  to  give  Edith  this 
allowance,"  he  said,  "I  supposed  that  you  would 
also  give  her  something.  I  did  not  know  what  your 
intentions  might  be." 

Mrs.  Hancock  brightened. 

"But  you  do  now,  dear  Edward,"  she  said,  "and 
you  said  you  quite  appreciate  them.  Dear  me,  what 
was  the  expression  you  used  which  warmed  my  heart 
so?  Oh,  yes;  you  had  never  heard  so  many  nice 
plans.  I  am  going  to  provide — and  I  assure  you  the 
more  it  costs  me  tlie  better  shall  I  be  pleased — for 
your  children  when  I  give  Edith,  oh,  so  gaily,  into 
your  care.  That  shall  be  my  part ;  you  were  pleased 
with  that.  I  dare  say  it  had  never  occurred  to  you, 
and  you  thought  it  very  likely,  that  I  should  give 
Edith  a  hundred  or  a  hundred  and  fifty  a  year,  so 
that  she  would  have  three  hundred  and  fifty  or  four 
hundred  pounds  of  her  own  a  year.  Then,  indeed, 
she  would  be  well  off;  she  would  be  as  comfortable 
as  she  had  ever  been." 

Suddenly  the  intolerable  sordidness  of  the  discus- 
sion struck  him.  Justly  he  told  himself  that  it  was 
none  of  his  making,  but  he  could  at  any  rate  de- 
cline to  let  it  continue.  He  did  not  hug  himself  over 
his  generosity,  for  he  knew  that  in  his  comfortable 
circumstances  it  made  no  real  difference  whether  he 
gave  Edith  four  hundred  a  year  or  not;  merely  he 
could  not  possibly  go  on  bargaining  and  disputing. 
He  got  up. 

"She  shall  have  four  hundred  a  year,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Hancock  gave  a  little  cry  of  delight. 

"Exactly  what  I  thought  that  your  generosity 
would  insist  on  giving  her,"  she  said.  "It  is  nice  to 
find  how  well  we  agree.  I  was  sure  we  should.  And 
what  a  delicious  sunny  morning!" 


BOOK  TWO 
CHAPTER   VI 

ELIZABETH   ENTERS 

Elizabeth  was  sitting  with  her  cousin  in  the  gar- 
den-house at  the  end  of  the  croquet-lawn,  waiting 
for  the  sound  of  the  gong  which  should  announce  to 
her  that  the  motor  was  round  to  take  her  for  a  drive 
with  Aunt  Julia.  She  had  arrived  the  evening  be- 
fore, after  spending  a  week  at  Paris  with  some  rela- 
tions of  her  mother,  and  had,  at  Mrs.  Hancock's 
special  desire,  breakfasted  in  her  room  that  morning, 
this  being  the  correct  after-cure  for  any  journey  that 
implied  a  night  in  the  train  or  a  crossing  of  the 
Channel,  for  had  Mrs.  Hancock  started  at  midday 
from  Calais  and  come  to  her  journey's  end  at  Dover 
she  would  certainly  have  had  breakfast  in  her  room 
next  day.  Elizabeth,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  feeling  ex- 
tremely vigorous  when  she  woke  this  morning  at  six, 
had  let  herself  discreetly  out  of  the  house,  and  much 
enjoyed  a  two  hours'  ramble,  returning  in  time  to 
steal  back  unobserved  to  her  room,  where  she  ate 
her  breakfast  with  remarkable  heartiness  at  nine. 
Soon  after,  she  had  come  out  with  Edith,  while  her 
aunt  read  small  paragraphs  in  the  paper  and  saw  the 
cook.  The  usual  schedule  for  the  day  had  been  al- 
tered so  that  Elizabeth  might  have  a  good  long  drive 
that  morning,  and  the  motor  had  been  ordered  for 
half-past  eleven,  instead  of  twelve;  she  could  then 
get  a  good  long  rest  in  the  afternoon,  which  should 

131 


132  ARUNDEL 

complete  the  journey-cure  inaugurated  by  break- 
fasting in  bed.  But  this  dislocation  of  hours  had 
proved  too  serious  to  face,  and  Lind  had  come  out 
half  an  hour  ago  to  say  that  if  it  suited  Miss  Eliza- 
beth equally  well,  the  car  would  come  round  at 
twelve — or  a  few  minutes  before — as  usual. 

Elizabeth,  as  has  previously  been  mentioned,  had 
not  looked  forward  to  this  summer  in  England  with 
her  aunt,  nor  had  she  considered  that  the  well- 
remembered  comfort  of  the  house  was  an  advantage. 
But  on  this  glittering  summer  morning,  after  the 
dust  of  trains  and  the  roar  of  towns,  she  found  her- 
self in  a  singularly  contented,  amused  and  eager 
frame  of  mind.  There  was,  for  the  present,  a  charm 
for  her  in  the  warm  airy  house,  the  exquisitely  kept 
garden,  the  cheerful  serenity  of  her  aunt.  As  is  the 
way  of  youth,  she  delighted  in  new  impressions,  and 
she  found  that  in  her  two  years'  absence  from  Eng- 
land, for  she  had  spent  the  last  summer  in  the  Hills, 
she  had  forgotten  tlie  aroma  of  home  life.  She  was 
recording  those  new  impressions  to  Edith  with  re- 
markable volubility. 

"But  the  most  beautiful  bath!"  she  said.  "All 
white  tiles,  and  roses  at  the  window,  and  silver 
handles  for  everything.  You  should  see  our  Indian 
bathroom,  Edith!  There  is  a  horrible  little  brown 
shed  opening  from  your  bedroom,  and  a  large  tin 
pan  in  a  corner,  and  if  you  are  lucky  a  tap  for  the 
water.  Usually  you  are  unlucky,  and  there  are  only 
tin  jugs  of  water.  In  the  hot  weather  the  first  thing 
you  have  to  do  is  to  look  carefully  about  to  see  that 
a  cobra  hasn't  come  to  share  it  with  you.  Then 
there  are  no  bells;  nobody  knows  why,  but  there 
aren't;  and  if  you  want  your  ayah  you  shout.  If 
she  doesn't  want  to  come  she  doesn't  appear  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  or  so,  and  explains  that  she  didn't 
hear  you  shout." 


ELIZABETH  ENTERS  133 

"Then  how  did  she  know  you  shouted?"  said 
Edith  brightly. 

"That  is  what  you  ask  her,  and  she  explains  at 
such  length  that  you  wish  you  were  dead.  Oh,  look 
at  the  grass — real  grass,  and  there's  still  dew  on  it 
in  the  shadow.  I  long  to  take  ofif  my  shoes  and 
stockings  and  walk  about  on  it.    May  I?" 

"Oh,  Elizabeth,  I  think  not!"  said  Edith,  slightly 
alarmed.    "EUis  would  think  it  so  odd." 

"Ellis?  Oh,  the  gardener!  He  looks  like  a  clergy- 
man, with  his  side-whiskers.  But  does  it  matter 
much  what  he  thinks?  Servants  must  think  such  a 
lot  of  awful  things  about  us.  However,  I  don't  mind. 
I  wanted  my  bath  tremendously  this  morning,  if 
you'll  promise  not  to  tell,  because  it  wasn't  exactly 
what  Aunt  Julia  meant.  You  see,  she  thought  I 
was  tired,  and  really  I  wasn't,  so  I  got  up  at  six  and 
had  a  delicious  ramble.  I  went  on  to  a  quiet  com- 
mon covered  with  heath,  and  there  was  nobody  there 
but  a  sort  of  lunatic  with  a  butterfly  net,  running 
madly  about.  He  caught  his  foot  in  a  root  of 
heather  and  fell  flat  down  at  my  feet.  Of  course 
I  howled  with  laughter." 

"Mr.  Beaumont,"  remarked  Edith  in  a  tone  of  in- 
spiration. 

"So  he  told  me,  because  we  sat  and  talked  after 
that.  I  rather  liked  him,  and  he  gave  me  a  cigar- 
ette." 

"A  cigarette?"  asked  Edith.     "You  don't  mean 


Elizabeth  laughed. 

"Oh,  dear,  have  I  done  anything  improper?"  she 
asked.  "But,  anyhow,  Ellis  wasn't  there.  He  is 
rather  mad,  I  suppose,  isn't  he — Mr.  Beaumont,  I 
mean?  Then  while  we  were  sitting  there  an  awful 
woman  came  along  the  path,  like  a  witch  in  spec- 
tacles and  the  most  enormous  boots  I  ever  saw." 


134  ARUNDEL 

"Yes?"  said  Edith,  rather  apprehensively. 

"You  would  never  guess;  it  was  his  sister.  After 
I  had  said  she  was  like  a  witch.  Then  she  became 
like  a  policeman  and  took  him  in  charge,  and  I  was 
left  smoking  my  cigarette  all  alone.  The  heather 
smelt  so  good,  better  than  the  cigarette.  But  every- 
thing smells  good  in  England,  and  reminds  you  of 
being  clean  and  happy  and  cool.  But  oh,  Edith,  the 
Indian  smell,  the  old  tired  wicked  smell!  There's 
always  a  little  bit  of  it  smouldering  in  my  heart  like 
a  joss-stick.  It's  made  of  incense  and  hot  sand  and 
brown  naked  people  and  the  filth  of  the  streets  and 
the  water-cart ;  it's  savage  and  eternal,  and  it  reeks 
of — it  doesn't  matter.  ...  Oh  look!  Ellie  is  brush- 
ing the  grass's  hair!     Does  he  comb  it  as  well?" 

Edith  had  but  little  chance  of  saying  anything 
at  all  while  these  remarkable  statements  were  being 
poured  out  by  her  cousin,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact 
she  was  well  content  to  listen.  Two  years  ago,  when 
she  had  seen  Elizabeth  last,  the  latter  was  a  tall, 
thin,  sallow  girl,  with  bursts  of  high  spirits  and  long 
intervals  of  languid  silences,  and  now,  with  the 
strength  of  two  years  added  and  the  flow  of  her 
adolescent  womanhood  tingling  in  her  veins,  she  was 
a  very  different  creature.  Her  sallow  face  was 
tinged  with  warm  blood,  giving  her  the  warm  brown 
complexion  that  goes  with  black  hair  and  soft  dark 
eyes;  it  was  as  impossible  not  to  feel  the  kindly 
effect  of  her  superb  vitality  as  to  be  insensible  to  the 
glow  of  a  frosty-burning  fire.  She  was  taut  and 
poised,  and  full  of  vigour  as  a  curled  spring  of  steel 
or  the  strained  wings  of  a  hovering  hawk,  with  the 
immobile  balance  that  implies  so  intense  an  energy. 
Edith,  with  a  rather  unaccustomed  flight  of  imagina- 
tion, compared  herself  to  a  sparrow  hopping  cheer- 
fully about  a  lawn,  with  a  nest  in  the  ivy,  and  an 


ELIZABETH  ENTERS  135 

appetite  for  bread-crumbs.  .  .  .  But  apparently  the 
sparrow  had  to  chirrup. 

"And  now  I  want  to  hear  all  sorts  of  things, 
Edith,"  she  said.  "Tell  me  about  Mr.  Beaumont, 
and  the  witch,  and  who  lives  next  door  on  that  side 
and  on  that.  On  that  side" — and  she  pointed  with 
her  long  brown  hand — "I  saw  a  roundabout  little 
woman  like  a  cook,  sitting  on  a  bench  and  reading 
the  paper.  Was  it  the  cook?  Was  she  looking  in 
the  advertisements  for  another  place,  I  wondered." 

"No;  Mrs.  Dobbs,"  said  Edith.  "She's  a  friend 
of  mother's  and  mine." 

"Tell  me  about  her.    What  does  she  think  about?" 

It  had  never  occurred  to  Edith  to  conjecture  what 
Mrs.  Dobbs  thought  about.  You  did  not  connect 
Mrs.  Dobbs  with  the  idea  of  thought. 

"She  is  very  fond  of  dogs,"  said  Edith. 

"I  saw  them  too,  curled  and  brushed.  I  expect 
she  blacks  the  ends  of  their  noses  like  horses'  hoofs. 
I  don't  call  them  dogs.  But  what  does  she  think 
about  if  she  lies  awake  at  night?  What  you  thmk 
about  lying  awake  is  what  you  really  think  about. 
Perhaps  she  doesn't  lie  awake.  We'll  leave  her.  I 
don't  seem  to  be  interested  in  her.  Who  lives 
there?" 

"Mr.  Hokoyd." 

"Whom  Aunt  Julia  said  was  coming  to  dinner  to- 
night? She  called  him  Edward — dear  Edward,  I 
think — and  I  am  sure  she  w^as  going  to  tell  me  some- 
thing about  him  when  the  old  man — Lind,  isn't  it? 
— came  in  to  say  Mrs.  Williams  was  waiting.  So  I 
came  out  here.  Tell  me  about  Edward.  Is  he  a 
relation?    Shall  I  caU  him  Edward?" 

Elizabeth  gave  one  glance  at  Edith's  face,  stopped 
suddenly,  and  clapped  her  hands. 

"I  guess,  I  guess!"  she  said.    "He  isn't  a  relation, 


136  ARUNDEL 

but  he  is  going  to  be.  Edith,  my  dear,  how  excit- 
ing!    I  want  to  hear  all  about  him  instantly." 

She  stopped  again. 

"I  think  he  must  have  come  out  of  his  front  gate 
in  rather  a  hurry  at  nine  o'clock,"  she  said.  "Is  he 
rather  tall  and  clcan-sliaven,  with  the  look  that  some 
people  have  as  if  he  had  waslicd  twice  at  least  that 
morning?  Also,  he  was  whistling  Schumann's  first 
Novelette,  very  loud  and  quite  out  of  tune.  I 
thought  that  was  rather  nice  of  him,  and  I  whistled 
too,  out  of  my  bedroom  window.  I  had  to;  I 
couldn't  help  it.  Of  course  I  didn't  let  him  see  me, 
and  he  stopped  and  looked  up  at  the  sky  to  see 
where  it  came  from.  I\Iy  dear,  tell  me  all  about  Ed- 
ward instantly." 

Edith  gasped  in  the  grip  c>f  this  genial  whirlwind 
of  a  girl. 

"You  are  quite  right,  Elizabeth."  she  said;  "and — 
and  there's  nobody  like  him.  I  should  have  come  up 
to  talk  to  you  last  night,  but  mother  said  you  would 
be  tired.  How  did  you  guess?  It  was  quick  of 
you." 

Elizabeth  laughed. 

"Not  very,  dear!''  she  said.  "You  looked  as  if — 
as  if  you  were  in  church.  And  as  you  weren't,  it 
was  obvious  you  were  in  love.  'Mr.  Holroyd' — you 
said  it  like  that,  like  an  'Amen.'  My  dear,  what 
fun !  But  I  do  hope  he's  good  enough  for  you,  and 
attractive  enough.  A  man  has  to  be  so  tremen- 
dously attractive  to  make  up  for  being  a  man  at  all, 
with  their  tufts  of  hair  all  over  their  faces.     Of 

course,  I  shall  never  marry  at  all.    I  shall Oh 

dear,  I've  begun  to  talk  about  myself,  and  really 
I'm  not  the  least  interested  in  myself.  Tell  me 
straight  off  all  about  Cousin  Edward." 

This  was  a  task  of  which  Edith  was  hopelessly 
incapable.    She  could  no  more  talk  about  hun  than 


ELIZABETH  ENTERS  137 

she  could  talk  about  religion.  Reticent  at  all  times, 
on  this  subject  her  inability  to  speak  amounted  al- 
most to  dumbness.  Her  thoughts,  unable  not  to 
hover  round  him,  were  equally  unable  to  alight,  to 
be  put  into  words.  The  very  thought  of  speaking 
of  him  embarrassed  her, 

"Quick!"  said  Elizabeth,  putting  her  arm  round 
her. 

"I  can't!  I  can't  say  anything  about  him  except 
that  he  is  he.  You  must  see  for  yourself.  But  oh, 
Elizabeth,  fancy  his  wanting  me!  And  fancy  that 
when  he  asked  me  first  I  didn't  really  care.  But 
very  soon  I  began  to  care,  and  now  I  care  for  him 
more  than  anything.  If  I  go  on  like  this  I  shall 
begin  not  to  care  about  anybody  else.  Oh,  there  is 
the  gong;  that  is  for  the  motor.  You  must  go.  But 
in  the  interval  I  think  you  are  a  dear.  I  care  for 
you." 

Edith  got  up,  hearing  the  sonorous  Chinese  mu- 
sic, but  Elizabeth  pulled  her  back  to  her  seat  again. 

"Surely  the  motor  can  wait  five  minutes,"  she 
said.    "We  are  beginning  to  know  each  other." 

"But  mother  doesn't  like  waiting,"  said  Edith. 

"Nor  does  daddy;  but  he  very  often  has  got  to. 
What  do  you  and  Cousin  Edward  talk  about?  I 
shall  call  him  Cousin  Edward  at  once,  I  think,  to 
show  him  that  I  know.  Or  is  that  forward  and  tropi- 
cal of  me?" 

Lind  approached  sw^iftly  across  the  grass. 

"Mrs.  Hancock  is  waiting,  miss,"  he  said  to  Eliza- 
beth. "She  thinks  you  can't  have  heard  the  gong 
out  here." 

Elizabeth  gave  him  a  ravishing  smile. 

"Oh,  I  heard  it  beautifully!"  she  said.  "Say  I'm 
coming." 

"I  think  Mrs.  Hancock  expects  you  at  once,  miss," 


138  ARUNDEL 

said  Lind,  quite  unsoftened,  and  continuing  to  stand 
firmly  there  until  Elizabeth  should  move. 

Under  these  circumstances  it  was  impossible  to 
continue  anythinp;  resembling  an  intimate  conversa- 
tion, and  Elizabeth  rose  just  as  Mrs.  Hancock  her- 
self came  out  on  to  the  gravel  walk  below  the  draw- 
ing-room window.  She  had  been  waiting  at  least 
three  minutes — a  thing  to  which  she  was  wholly 
unaccustomed  except  when  going  by  train.  Then, 
for  the  sake  of  the  corner  scat  facing  the  engine,  she 
cheerfully  waited  twenty. 

Elizabeth  was  quite  unconscious  of  any  severity 
of  scrutiny  on  the  part  of  her  aunt  as  she  ran  across 
the  lawn  and  jumped  over  a  flower-bed,  nor  did  she 
detect  the  slightest  intention  of  sarcasm  in  Mrs. 
Hancock's  greeting. 

"Are  you  nearly  ready,  Elizabeth?"  she  asked. 
"If  so  the  car  has  been  waiting  some  time." 

''I'm  quite  ready,  Aunt  Julia."  she  said,  "and  I 
am  so  looking  forward  to  my  drive." 

The  usual  detailed  discussion  was  gone  through 
with  Denton  as  to  their  exact  route,  and  Mrs.  Han- 
cock put  her  feet  up  on  the  footstool  that  had  been 
bought  for  the  journey  to  Bath. 

"Now  we're  ofif,"  she  said;  "and  if  you  would  put 
down  your  window  two  more  holes,  dear,  or  perhaps 
three,  we  shall  be  quite  comfortable.  You  look  quite 
rested;  that's  what  comes  of  stopping  in  your  room 
for  breakfast.  And  if  you  get  a  good  long  rest  again 
this  afternoon,  while  Edith  and  I  are  out,  I've  no 
doubt  you'll  be  quite  brisk  this  evening.  ]Mr.  Hol- 
royd  is  coming  to  dinner,  and  you'll  hear  him  play. 
That  will  be  quite  a  treat  for  you  as  you  are  so  fond 
of  music.    And  now  I  want  to  tell  you " 

Elizabeth  interrupted  her  aunt.  To  this  also  she 
was  unaccustomed. 

"I  think  I  know,"  she  said.    "Do  you  mean  about 


ELIZABETH  ENTERS  139 

Mr.  Holroyd?  Edith  told  me.  But  she  didn't  seem 
able  to  describe  him  at  all.  Do  tell  me  about  him! 
Is  he  good  enough  for  her?    I  think  she's  a  dear!" 

"Edward  is  a  young  man  in  a  thousand,"  began 
Mrs.  Hancock. 

"Yes;  but  is  he  the  right  young  man  in  a  thou- 
sand? I  hope  he's  rich  too.  though  of  course  that 
doesn't  matter  so  much  for  Edith.  Aunt  Julia,  what 
a  lovely  car!  IMay  I  drive  it  some  day?  Would 
your  chauffeur  lend  me  his  cap  and  coat?  I  used 
often  to  drive  daddy,  till  one  day  when  I  went  into 
a  ditch.  It  was  so  funny;  one  door  was  jammed, 
of  course,  against  the  side  of  the  ditch  and  we 
couldn't  open  the  other.  Mamma  was  inside.  We 
thought  we  should  have  to  fcctl  her  through  the  win- 
dow. But  daddy  said  afterwards  that  it  wasn't 
entirely  my  fault.  May  I  drive  now?  Or  per- 
haps I  had  better  learn  about  the  car  first.  And 
now  about  Cousin  Edward?" 

Mrs.  Hancock  had  received  several  shocks  dur- 
ing this  hurricane  speech,  and  she  had  to  collect 
herself  a  little  before  she  could  reply.  But  before 
she  could  reply  Elizabeth  was  away  again. 

"Oh,  here  we  are  on  that  nice  heath!"  she  said. 
"It  did  smell  so  good!  Oh,  Aunt  Julia,  I  think  I 
had  better  confess!  I  couldn't  stop  in  bed  this 
morning,  though  it  was  nice  of  you  to  want  me  to 
get  rested,  and  I  w^ent  for  a  walk  about  six." 

"My  dear!     All  alone?" 

"Some  of  the  time.  I  met  a  man  whom  I  thought 
was  a  lunatic  with  a  butterfly  net,  but  Edith  says 
it  was  Mr.  Beaumont.  He  fell  down,  so  we  talked. 
And  his  sister  came  out  of  a  wood!  Oh,  I  believe 
that  is  he  again,  coming  along  the  road  towards 
us  now!" 

"But,  my  dear,  what  odd  conduct  on  your  part!" 


140  ARUNDEL 

"Was  it?  It  seemed  the  only  thing  to  do.  Had 
I  better  bow  to  him,  Aunt  Julia?" 

Mrs.  Hancock  felt  slightly  bewildered  by  so 
puzzling  a  question  of  ctifiuette  as  that  involved  by 
a  girl  conversing  with  a  total  stranger — particularly 
when  that  stranger  turned  out  to  be  Mr.  Beaumont 
— at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Prudence  pre- 
vailed. 

"We  will  both  look  at  the  view  out  of  the  side- 
window,"  she  said,  and  Mr.  Beaumont  encountered 
a  pair  of  profiles. 

But  Mr.  Beaumont  and  his  butterfly  net  being 
left  behind,  Mrs.  Hancock  thought  well  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  the  opportunity  for  a  few  general  re- 
marks. Already  she  had  been  kept  waitmg.  been 
interrupted,  and  been  faced  with  this  problem  aris- 
ing from  quite  unheard-of  conduct  on  Elizabeth's 
part.  And  as  a  gentian  thrusts  blossoms  through 
the  snow,  so  at  the  base  of  her  cordiality  of  tone  lay 
a  frozen  rigidity.  As  her  custom  was,  when  she 
wanted  to  say  something  of  the  correcting  and  im- 
proving nature,  she  laid  her  hand  softly — then 
squeezed — on  Elizabeth's.  This  was  symbolical  of 
the  afifectionate  nature  of  her  intention. 

"I  can't  tell  you,  dear  Elizabeth,"  she  said,  "how 
I  have  been  looking  forward  to  your  coming  here, 
and  I  am  quite  certain  we  shall  have  the  happiest 
summer  together.  And  I  hope  you  won't  find  the 
manners  and  customs  expected  of  a  young  lady  in 
England  very  strange,  though  I  know  they  are  so 
different  to  what  is  quite  right  and  proper  in  India, 
with  all  its  deserts  and  black  people.  IVIost  interest- 
ing it  all  must  be,  and  I  am  greatly  looking  forward 
to  hearing  about  it  all,  and  I'm  sure  when  you  tell 
me  I  shall  want  to  go  to  India  myself.  But  here, 
for  instance,  dear  Edith  would  never  dream  of  taking 
a  walk  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning  all  alone,  when 


ELIZABETH  ENTERS  141 

there  might  be  all  kinds  of  people  about,  or  talking 
to  strangers,  or  thinking  even  of  driving  a  motor-car. 
My  dear,  if  you  would  reach  down  that  tube  and 
blow  through  it  and  then  say,  *To  the  right,  please, 
Denton,'  he  will  take  us  a  very  pleasant  round,  and 
we  shall  get  back  ten  minutes  before  lunch  and  have 
time  to  rest  and  cool.  Had  we  started  a  few  min- 
utes sooner,  when  the  car  came  round,  we  should 
have  had  time  to  go  a  long  round,  past  a  very  pretty 
mill  which  I  wanted  to  show  you.  As  it  is,  we  will 
take  a  shorter  round." 

There  was  all  Mrs.  Hancock's  quiet  masterfulness 
in  these  agreeable  remarks,  all  the  leaden  imper- 
turbability which  formed  so  large  a  factor  in  the 
phenomenon  of  her  getting  her  own  way  in  her  own 
manner,  and  of  everybody  else  doing,  in  the  long 
run,  what  she  wished,  until  they  were  reduced  to 
the  state  of  abject  vassalage  in  which  her  imme- 
diate circle  found  themselves.  The  effect  it  pro- 
duced on  Elizabeth,  though  not  complete,  was  ma- 
terial. 

"I'm  afraid  that  it  was  my  fault  we  didn't  start 
punctually,  Aunt  Julia,"  she  said.  "But  couldn't  we 
go  round  by  the  mill  all  the  same  and  be  a  little 
late  for  lunch?" 

Mrs.  Hancock  laughed. 

"And  make  other  people  unpunctual  as  well?"  she 
said.  "No,  my  dear;  when  anybody  has  been  un- 
punctual— I  am  never  unpunctual  myself — my  rule 
is  to  get  back  to  punctuality  as  soon  as  possible  and 
start  fair  again.  We  will  go  to  the  mill  another 
day,  for  I  hope  we  shall  have  plenty  of  drives  to- 
gether. About  Mr.  Beaumont,  I  hardly  know  what 
to  do.  If  only,  you  naughty  girl,  you  had  not  got  up 
but  stayed  quietly  in  bed,  as  I  meant  you  to  do,  it 
would  never  have  happened.  I  think  the  best  plan 
wiU  be  for  me  to  ask  him  to  lunch  with  us  and  then 


142  ARUNDEL 

introduce  you  quite  fresh,  so  that  he  will  see  that 
we  all  mean  to  forget  about  your  meeting  on  the 
heath.  Look,  here  are  the  golf  links!  Very  likely 
we  shall  see  Mr.  IMartin  playing.  He  is  our  clergy- 
man, and  we  are  most  lucky  to  have  him.  Yes,  upon 
my  word,  there  he  is!  Now  he  sees  my  car  and  is 
waving  his  cap!  Well,  that  was  a  coincidence,  meet- 
ing him,  for  now  you  will  recognize  him  again  when 
you  see  him  in  his  surplice  and  hood  in  church  to- 
morrow morning.  Dear  me,  it  is  the  first  Sunday 
in  the  month,  and  there  will  be  the  Communion 
after  Morning  Service.  Mr.  Martin  never  calls  it 
Matins;  he  says  that  is  a  Roman  Catholic  name. 
How  quickly  the  Sundays  come  round!"  , 

Elizabeth  looked  out  of  the  window  at  the  cele- 
brated Mr.  Martin,  and  saw  that  here  was  an  op- 
portunity for  saying  what  she  felt  she  must  say  to 
her  aunt  before  Sunday  morning.  The  talk  she 
had  had  with  her  father  on  the  reality  of  religious 
beliefs  to  her  had  been  renewed  before  she  left 
India,  and,  with  his  consent,  she  had  made  up  her 
mind  not  to  go  to  church  while  the  reason  for  so 
doing  remained  inconclusive  to  her.  To  attend  pub- 
lic worship  seemed  to  her  a  symbolical  act,  an  out- 
ward sign  of  something  that,  in  truth,  was  non-ex- 
istent. ...  It  was  like  a  red  Socialist  joining  in 
the  National  Anthem.  But  she  had  promised  him 
— and,  indeed,  the  promise  was  one  with  the  de- 
sire of  her  heart — to  pray,  not  to  let  neglect  cement 
her  want  of  conviction. 

"Aunt  Julia,"  she  said,  "I  want  to  tell  you  some- 
thing. It  is  that  I  don't  want  to  go  to  church.  It 
— it  doesn't  mean  anything  to  me.  Oh,  I'm  afraid 
you  are  shocked!" 

It  seemed  a  justifiable  apprehension. 

"Elizabeth!"  said  Mrs.  Hancock.  "How  can  you 
say  such  wicked  things?" 


ELIZABETH  ENTERS  143 

This  roused  the  girl. 

"They  are  not  wicked!"  she  said  hotly.  "It  is 
very  cruel  of  you  to  say  so.  I  had  a  long  talk,  two 
talks,  with  daddy  about  it.  He  agrees  with  me. 
He  was  very  sorry,  but  he  agrees." 

It  is  hard  to  convey  exactly  the  impression  made 
on  Mrs.  Hancock's  mind.  If  Elizabeth  had  con- 
fessed to  a  systematic  course  of  burglary  or  murder 
she  would  not  have  been  more  shocked,  nor  would 
she  have  been  more  shocked  if  her  niece  had  an- 
nounced her  intention  of  appearing  at  dinner  with- 
out shoes  and  stockings.  The  conventional  out- 
rage, in  fact,  was  about  as  distressing  to  her  as  the 
moral  one.  She  knew,  of  course,  perfectly  well  that 
even  in  well-regulated  Heathmoor  certain  most  re- 
spectable inhabitants,  who  often  sat  at  her  table, 
were  accustomed  to  spend  Sunday  morning  on  the 
golf-links  instead  of  at  public  worship,  but  she  never 
for  a  moment  thought  of  classing  them  with  Eliza- 
beth. She  could  not  have  explained  that;  it  was 
merely  matter  of  common  knowledge  that  grown-up 
men  did  not  seem  to  need  to  go  to  church  so  much. 
Similarly  it  was  right  for  them  to  smoke  strong 
cigars  after  dinner,  whereas  the  fact  that  Elizabeth 
had  consumed  one  of  Mr.  Beaumont's  cigarettes, 
had  she  been  cognizant  of  that  appalhng  occurrence, 
would  have  seemed  to  her  an  almost  inconceivable 
breach  of  decency.  Girls  went  to  church,  and  did 
not  smoke ;  here  was  the  statement  of  two  very  sim- 
ple fundamental  things. 

"I  hardly  know  what  to  say  to  you,"  she  said. 
"Talking  to  Mr.  Beaumont  is  nothing  to  this.  I 
must  ask  you  to  be  silent  for  a  little  while,  Eliza- 
beth, while  I  collect  my  thoughts,  and  on  our  first 
drive  too,  which  I  hoped  we  should  enjoy  so  much, 
although  your  being  late  made  it  impossible  for 
us  to  go  round  by  the  mill  as  I  had  planned." 


144  ARUNDEL 

The  poor  lady's  pleasure  was  quite  spoiled,  and 
not  being  accustomed  to  arrange  her  thoughts  in 
any  order,  except  when  she  was  forming  careful 
plans  for  her  own  comfort,  she  found  the  collection 
of  them,  which  she  desired,  diflBcult  of  attainment. 
But  very  quickly  she  began  to  see  that  her  own 
comfort  was  seriously  involved,  and  that  gave  her 
a  starting-point.  It  would  be  known  by  now 
throughout  Heathmoor  that  her  niece  from  India 
had  come  to  stay  with  her  for  the  summer,  and 
it  would  be  seen  that  no  niece  sat  with  her  in  the 
pew  just  below  the  pulpit.  Almost  all  the  seats  in 
the  church  faced  eastwards;  this,  with  one  or  two 
others,  ran  at  right  angles  to  them,  and  was  thus 
in  full  view  of  the  congregation.  It  foHowed  that 
unless  she  explained  Elizabeth's  absence,  Sunday 
by  Sunday,  when  there  was  always  a  general  chat 
— except  on  the  first  Sunday  of  the  month — at  the 
gate  into  the  churchyard,  by  a  cold  or  some  other 
non-existent  complaint  (and  this  was  really  not  to 
be  thought  of),  her  circle  of  friends  would  neces- 
sarily come  to  the  most  shocking  conclusion  as  to 
Elizabeth's  non-appearance.  Certainly  Mr.  Martin 
would  notice  it,  and  it  would  be  his  duty  to  inquire 
into  it.  That  would  be  most  uncomfortable,  and 
if  inquiries  were  made  of  her  she  could  not  imagine 
herself  giving  either  the  real  reason  or  a  false  one. 
No  doubt  if  Mr.  Martin  talked  to  Elizabeth  he 
could  soon  awake  in  her  that  sense  of  religious  se- 
curity, of  soothed,  confident  trust — a  trust  as  com- 
plete as  that  with  which  any  sane  person  awaited 
the  rising  of  the  sun  in  the  morning,  which  to  Mrs. 
Hancock  connoted  Christianity,  but  that  he  should 
talk  to  her  implied  that  he  must  know  what  ailed 
her.  And  in  any  case  the  rest  of  Heathmoor  would 
notice  Elizabeth's  absence  from  church.  ...  It  was 
all  very  dreadful  and  puzzling,  and  was  no  doubt 


ELIZABETH  ENTERS  145 

the  result  of  a  prolonged  sojourn  in  India,  where 
heathens,  in  spite  of  all  those  missions  to  which 
she  did  not  subscribe,  were  still  in  such  numerical 
preponderance.  But  the  cause  of  Elizabeth's  pro- 
posed absence  did  not  in  reality  so  greatly  trouble 
her.  What  spoiled  her  pleasure,  in  any  case,  was 
the  un comfortableness  of  the  situation  if  Elizabeth 
was  seen  to  be  consistently  absent  from  the  eleven 
o'clock  service. 

Then  the  light  began  to  break,  and  conventional 
arguments  flocked  to  the  assistance  of  her  be- 
leaguered conventionality. 

"I  am  so  shocked  and  distressed,  dear,"  she  said, 
"though  you  will  tell  me,  I  dare  say,  that  there 
is  little  good  in  that,  and  on  this  lovely  morning, 
too.  But  of  the  reason  for  your  not  going  to  church 
I  will  not  speak  now.  I  am  thinking  of  the  effect. 
Every  one  knows  that  you  are  here  with  me,  and, 
unless  I  am  to  say  you  are  unwell  every  Sunday 
morning,  what  am  I  to  say?  And,  indeed,  I  could 
not  bring  myself  to  say  you  are  unwell,  and  keep 
on  repeating  it.  Of  course  we  all  say,  'Not  at  home,' 
when  it  is  not  convenient  to  receive  callers,  but  on 
a  subject  like  this  it  would  be  out  of  the  question. 
There  is  Mr.  Beaumont  again;  we  seem  always  to 
be  meeting  him.  And  the  servants,  too.  Lind  and 
Denton  and  Filson  will  all  certainly  know  you  don't 
go  to  church,  and  Mrs.  Williams,  who  can't  go, 
though  I  am  sure  she  would  if  her  duties  allowed 
her  to,  will  be  certain  to  hear  you  moving  about 
from  the  kitchen.  They  will  talk  among  them- 
selves and  say  how  odd  it  is.  It  will  offend  them, 
dear,  and  you  know  what  is  said  about  giving  of- 
fence. I  am  sure  you  did  not  think  of  that" — Mrs. 
Hancock  had  only  just  thought  of  it^ — "or  consider 
what  effect  your  absence  would  have.  I  assure  you 
that  often  and  often  I  have  felt  inclined  not  to  go 


146  ARUNDEL 

on  Sunday  morning,  and  should  much  prefer,  when 
it  is  wet,  to  read  the  psahns  and  lessons  at  home. 
Even  then  Lind  and  Filson  and  the  others  would 
know  that  it  was  only  the  weather  that  prevented 
me,  and  they  would  see  the  prayer-books  and  Bibles 
lying  about." 

Elizabeth  again  interrupted. 

"You  needn't  say  any  more,  Aunt  Julia,"  she  said. 
"Certainlv  I  will  go  to  church  on  Sunday.  It  seems 
to  me  that  it  would  be  an  offence  against  your  hos- 
pitality for  me  to  refuse.  It  is  part  of  the  routine, 
is  it  not,  a  rule  of  the  house?  On  those  grounds  I 
will  go.     Will  that  satisfy  you?" 

Mrs.  Hancock  found  that  all  that  had  "shocked 
and  distressed  her"  was  sensibly  ameliorated.  The 
feelings  of  Lind  and  Filson  would  be  spared,  and 
the  chat  at  the  churchyard  gate  would  be  as  cheer- 
ful as  usual.     She  beamed  on  her  niece. 

"I  knew  you  would  see  it  in  the  right  light,  if  it 
was  put  to  you,"  she  said.  "And,  with  regard  to 
your  reasons  for  not  wanting  to  go,  would  you  like 
to  talk  to  Mr.  Martin  about  it?  He  is  so  wise.  Any- 
how, you  will  hear  him  preach,  and  I  cannot  imagine 
any  one  hearing  Mr.  Martin  preach  without  feeling 
the  absolute  truth  of  what  he  says.  But  that  we 
will  talk  of  another  time.  Dear  me,  we  are  back 
at  the  golf  links  again;  we  have  made  a  loop,  you 
see.  And  if  that  isn't  Mr.  Martin  going  into  the 
club-house.  Fancy  seeing  him  twice  in  a  morning! 
Well,  we  have  had  a  nice  drive,  after  all.  And  when 
we  get  in  you  must  remind  me  to  give  you  a  volume 
of  sermons  by  your  grandfather,  in  which  he  tells 
about  his  own  doubts  when  he  was  a  young  man, 
and  how  he  fought  and  overcame  them.  It  is  all  so 
beautifully  put,  and  after  that  he  never  had  any 
more  doubts  at  all.    And  we  shall  get  back  ten  min- 


ELIZABETH  ENTERS  147 

utes  before  luncheon-time,  which  is  just  what  I  hke 
to  do." 

Edward  was  the  only  guest  that  evening,  and 
during  dinner  Elizabeth  found  herself  observing 
him  somewhat  closely,  and  coming  to  no  conclusions 
whatever  about  him.  Certainly  he  was  good-look- 
ing, he  was  well-bred  and  quiet  of  voice,  but  she 
found  nothing  in  him  to  distinguish  him  from  the 
host,  nothing  that  to  her  could  account  for  the 
lighting  up  of  Edith's  face  when  she  looked  at  him. 
He  had  a  couple  of  Stock  Exchange  jokes  to  repeat, 
one  of  which  made  ]\Irs.  Hancock  call  him  naughty, 
and  the  subjects  of  perennial  interest,  such  as  the 
weather  and  the  train-service — it  appeared  that  the 
directors  were  going  to  cut  off  the  vexing  three  min- 
utes in  the  evening  train  from  town — took  their 
turns  with  the  hardy  annuals,  such  as  the  forth- 
coming croquet  tournament  and  the  ripening  straw- 
berry crop.  New  plays  going  on  in  town,  the  criti- 
cisms of  which  Mrs.  Hancock  had  read  in  the  Morn- 
ing Post,  followed,  and  the  much-debated  action  of 
the  Censor  in  refusing  to  license  the  Biblical  drama 
called  "David"  infused  a  tinge  of  extra  vividness 
in  discussion,  and  Mrs.  Hancock  exhibited  consid- 
erable ingenuity  in  avoiding  the  word  "Bathsheba." 

"Mr.  Beaumont  was  talking  to  me  about  it  the 
other  day,"  she  said,  "and  he  said  his  cousin,  who 
is  in  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  ofl5ce,  told  him  that 
there  was  no  question  about  its  having  the  licence 
refused.  There  were  episodes  quite  unfit  for  the 
stage." 

Everybody  looked  regretfully  at  the  dessert. 

"I  am  very  glad  it  was  stopped,"  continued  Mrs. 
Hancock.  "I  feel  so  uncomfortable  at  the  theatre 
if  I  think  there  is  something  coming  which  isn't 
quite -" 


148  ARUNDEL 

"But  we  have  it  all  read  in  the  lessons  in  church, 
don't  we,  Aunt  Julia?"  asked  Elizabeth. 

"Yes,  my  dear;  but  what  is  suitable  to  read  is 
often  not  suitable  for  the  staple.  For  my  part,  even 
if  they  do  give  'Parsifal'  in  town,  I  shall  not  think 
of  going  to  it," 

"But  that  is  not  quite  parallel  to  David  and 
Bathsheba,"  said  Elizabeth  straight  out.  Lind  was 
at  her  elbow,  too,  with  the  savoury. 

"And  do  come  in  to-morrow  afternoon,  Edward," 
said  Mrs.  Hancock,  with  extraordinary  presence  of 
mind,  "and  play  these  two  young  ladies  at  croquet." 

Smoking,  of  course,  was  not  allowed  in  Mrs.  Han- 
cock's drawing-room,  and  Edward  was»firmly  sliut 
into  the  dining-room,  with  the  injunction  not  to 
stop  there  long.  No  word  was  said  regarding  Eliza- 
beth's awful  lapse,  nf)r  did  any  silence  reproach 
her.  The  one  swift  change  of  subject  at  the  mo- 
ment of  the  crisis  had  called  sufficient  attention 
to  it.  The  table  with  patience  cards  was  set  ready, 
and  Mrs.  Hancock,  over  her  coffee,  got  instantly 
occupied  and  superficially  absorbed  in  her  game. 
Before  long  Edward,  as  commanded,  reunited  him- 
self. 

"And  now  give  us  our  usual  treat,  dear  Edward," 
said  Mrs.  Hancock,  building  busily  from  the  king 
downwards  in  alternate  colours,  "and  play  us  some- 
thing. That  beautiful  piece  by  Schumann  now, 
where  it  keeps  coming  in  again." 

From  this  indication  Edward  was  quick  enough 
to  conjecture  the  first  of  the  Noveletten,  and  opened 
the  Steinway  grand,  covered  with  a  piece  of  Italian 
embroidery  on  which  stood  a  lamp,  two  vases  of 
flowers,  and  four  photograph  frames.  Edith  moved 
round  to  the  other  side  of  the  card-table,  where 
she  could  see  the  player;  Elizabeth,  with  a  flash 
of  delighted  anticipation,  shifted  round  in  her  chair 


ELIZABETH  ENTERS  149 

and  put  down  the  evening  paper.  She  adored  the 
piece  "which  kept  coming  in  again,"  and,  knowing 
it  well  herself,  felt  the  musician's  intense  pleasure 
at  the  idea  of  hearing  what  somebody  else  thought 
about  it.  Somewhat  to  her  surprise,  Edward  put 
the  music  in  front  of  him ;  more  to  her  surprise,  he 
did  not  show  the  slightest  intention  of  moving 
the  lamp,  the  vase  of  flowers,  or  the  photograph 
frames. 

Then  he  began  with  the  loud  pedal  down,  as 
the  composer  ordered,  and  Elizabeth  listened 
amazed  to  an  awful,  a  conscientious,  a  correct  per- 
formance. Never  were  there  so  many  right  notes 
played  with  so  graceless  a  result;  no  one  could  have 
imagined  there  was  so  much  wood  in  the  wliole 
human  system  as  Edward  contrived  to  concentrate 
into  his  ten  fingers,  those  fingers  which,  Elizabeth 
noticed,  looked  so  slender  and  athletic,  and  for  all 
purposes  of  striking  notes  properly  were  as  eflacient 
as  a  row  of  wooden  pegs.  He  made  the  piano  bel- 
low, he  made  it  shriek,  he  made  it  rattle;  and  when 
he  played  with  less  force  he  made  it  emit  squeaks 
and  little  hollow  gasps.  As  for  phrasing,  there  was 
of  course  none  at  all ;  each  chord  was  played  as  writ- 
ten, each  sequence  that  made  up  the  phrase  played 
with  laborious  and  precise  punctuality.  To  any  one 
of  musical  mind  the  result  was  of  the  most  excruci- 
ating nature,  or  would  have  been  had  not  the  entire 
performance  been  so  extremely  funny.  As  a  parody 
of  how  some  quite  accomplished  but  unsympathetic 
pianist  performed  the  Novelette  it  was  beyond  all 
praise.  Elizabeth  rocked  with  noiseless  laughter. 
So  much  for  the  sound,  and  then  Elizabeth,  looking 
at  his  face  in  the  twilight  of  the  shaded  lamp,  saw 
that  in  it  was  all  that  his  hands  lacked.  The  fea- 
tures that  at  dinner,  when  she  somewhat  studied 
him,  had  appeared  so  meaninglessly  good-looking, 


150  ARUNDEL 

were  irradiated,  transfigured;  he  heard  all  that  his 
fingers  could  not  make  others  hear,  his  eyes  saw 
and  danced  with  seeing,  all  the  abounding  grace 
and  colour  that  lay  in  the  mclocUes  his  hands  were 
incapable  of  rendering.  Then,  in  three  inflexible 
leaps,  as  if  a  wooden  marionette  jumpmg  down  from 
platform  to  platform  of  rock,  the  piece  came  to  an 
end. 

Edith  gave  a  great  sigh. 

"Oh,  it's  splendid ! "  she  said. 

Mrs.  Hancock  triumphantly  put  the  knave  of 
hearts  on  to  the  queen  of  clubs. 

"Thank  you,  Edward!"  she  said.  "I  like  it  where 
it  comes  in  again.  There!  I  believe  'it's  going  to 
come  out!" 

He  faced  round  on  his  music-stool  to  receive  their 
compliments,  his  eyes  still  glowing,  and  met  Eliza- 
beth's look.  Perception  flashed  between  the  two, 
wordless  and  infallible.  He  knew  for  certain  that 
she  knew,  knew  all  the  exultant  music  meant  to 
him,  knew  all  the  entire  incompetence  of  his  ren- 
dering.   He  got  up  and  went  to  her. 

"You  play,  don't  you?"  he  said,  speaking  rather 
low.  "Can't  you  take  the  taste  of  that  out  of  our 
mouths?" 

Elizabeth  almost  laughed  for  pleasure  at  the  com- 
plete understanding  so  instantaneously  established 
between  them. 

"Yes.    What  shall  I  play?"  she  asked. 

"If  only  you  happened  to  know  that  first  Novel- 
ette," he  said. 

She  raised  her  eyebrows. 

"Shall  I  really?"  she  said.    "I  think  I  know  it." 

"And  won't  you  give  us  that  other  delicious  one?" 
said  Mrs.  Hancock,  plastering  the  cards  down.  "The 
one  I  like  next  best,  which  is  sad  in  the  middle." 

Elizabeth  did  not  answer,  but  went  straight  over 


ELIZABETH  ENTERS  151 

to  the  piano.  He  had  shut  the  book  from  which 
he  played,  and  she  did  not  open  it,  for,  though 
she  suspected  she  might  not  be  note-perfect,  she 
intended  to  play,  not  to  practise.  Mrs.  Hancock, 
absorbed  in  the  patience  that  really  was  "coming 
out,"  did  not  notice  that  she  had  no  reply  to  her 
question,  and  the  click  of  her  triumphant  sequence 
of  cards  continued.  Edith,  who  had  not  heard  what 
had  passed  between  the  two,  remembered  that  Eliza- 
beth was  fond  of  music,  but  felt  surprised  and 
slightly  nervous  at  the  thought  that  she  should 
think  of  playing  when  the  echoes  of  that  rever- 
berating performance  still  lingered  in  the  air.  But 
neither  Elizabeth  nor  Edward  seemed  to  heed  her. 
Elizabeth  sat  down,  then  half-rose  again,  and 
gave  a  twirl  to  the  music-stool.  Then  she  paused 
for  a  moment,  with  her  hands  before  her  face, 
and  without  any  preliminary  excursions,  plunged 
straight  into  the  first  Novelette  again.  And  all  that 
had  been  in  Edward's  brain,  all  that  could  not  com- 
municate itself  to  his  hands,  streamed  from  her 
firm,  soft  finger-tips.  The  images  imprisoned  in  his 
brain  broke  out  and  peopled  the  room  with  colour 
and  with  fire.  Banners  waved,  and  a  throng  of 
laughing  youths  passed,  jewel-decked,  in  wonderful 
processions  down  a  street  of  noble  palaces.  At  every 
corner  fresh  members  joined  them,  for  on  this  joyful 
morning  the  whole  world  of  those  spirit-presences 
kept  festival,  and  whether  they  sang  or  not,  or 
whether  the  marching  melody  was  but  the  sound  of 
joy,  he  knew  not.  .  .  .  Innumerable  as  the  laughter 
of  the  sea  they  glittered  along,  until  by  some  wonder- 
ful transformation  they  were  the  waves  on  a  spring 
morning,  and  over  them  a  song  floated.  ...  Or 
were  they  a  field  of  daffodils,  and  over  them  the 
scent  of  their  blossoming  hovered?  From  the  sun- 
light they  passed  into  a  clear  blue  shadow,  and  out 


152  ARUNDEL 

of  it,  as  out  of  waters,  came  the  strain.  .  .  .  From 
shadow  into  sunlight  again  they  passed,  and  from 
sunlight  into  waves  with  singing  sea-birds  flashing 
white-winged  over  them.  Once  more  sun  and  ban- 
ners, and  in  the  sunlight  a  fountain  of  water  aspired. 
.  .  .  Where  under  his  hands  the  wooden  doll  had 
tumbled  from  rock  to  rock,  bouquets  of  rainbowed 
water  fell  from  basin  to  basin  of  crystal.  .  .  .  And 
that  was  the  first  Novelette. 

Mrs.  Hancock  had  noticed  the  change  of  per- 
former, though  not  at  first,  for  it  only  occurred  to 
her  that  Edward  was  playing  the  same  piece  over 
again.  But  it  struck  her  very  soon  that  he  was 
not  "keeping  the  time"  with  such  precision  as  usual, 
and  the  moment  afterwards  that  this  was  altogether 
dififerent  from  the  tune  that  kept  coming  in  again, 
as  rendered  before.  Then,  looking  up,  she  saw  it 
was  Elizabeth  at  the  piano,  and  there  followed  a 
couple  of  obviously  wrong  notes.  How  foolish  and 
forward  of  this  girl  to  play  after  Edward,  to  play  his 
piece,  too,  and  make  mistakes  in  it.  And  when  the 
tune  came  in  again  she  didn't  put  half  the  force 
into  it  that  Edward  did.  Certainly  she  had  not 
Edward's  "touch,"  nor  his  masculine  power,  that 
stamped  out  the  time  with  such  vigour. 

Her  natural  geniality  prevented  her  saying  or 
even  hinting  at  any  of  these  things,  and  she  was 
extremely  encouraging. 

"Thank  you,  Elizabeth!"  she  said.  "What  a  co- 
incidence that  you  should  be  learning  one  of  Ed- 
ward's tunes.  Now  you  have  heard  it  played,  haven't 
you?  I  am  sure  you  will  get  it  right  in  time.  You 
must  play  it  to  Edward  again  next  week,  when  you 
have  practised,  and  he  will  see  how  you  have  got 
on." 

"Ah,  do  play  it  again  to  me  next  week,"  said  he, 
"or  before  next  week." 


ELIZABETH  ENTERS  153 

"And  now,  Edward,"  said  Mrs.  Hancock,  "do  let 
U9  have  the  tune  that  gets  sad  in  the  middle." 

He  turned  to  her,  with  face  that  music  still  vivi- 
fied. 

"After  that  all  my  tunes  would  be  sad,"  he  said 
— "beginning,  middle,  and  end.  But  won't  Miss 
Fanshawe  play  again?" 

Mrs.  Hancock  thought  that  charming  of  him;  it 
was  so  tactful  to  make  Elizabeth  think  she  had 
played  well;  poor  Elizabeth,  with  her  wrong  notes 
that  any  one  with  an  ear  could  detect.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact  she  did  not  care  one  particle  who  played 
or  if  anybody  played,  so  long  as  her  patience  came 
out.  She  perceived  nothing  of  the  situation,  guessed 
nothing  about  the  fire  from  the  girl's  fingers  which 
tingled  in  his  brain. 

But  Edith  saw  more;  she  saw,  at  any  rate,  that 
soTnething  in  Elizabeth's  playing  had  enormously 
pleased  and  excited  her  lover.  And  he  had  said 
that  it  was  surely  she  herself  who  lay  behind  mel- 
ody, she  whom  he  sought.  She  went  to  Elizabeth 
and  gently  pushed  her  back  on  to  the  music-stool. 

"Do  play  again,  dear!"  she  said.  "It  gives  us 
such  pleasure." 

Elizabeth,  as  her  father  knew,  was  conscious  of 
little  else  than  her  "German  Johnnies,"  when  there 
was  singing  in  her  brain,  and  she  sat  down  at  once. 

"Do  you  know  this?"  she  said.    "Quite  short." 

She  touched  the  keys  once  and  then  again,  as  if 
to  test  the  lightness  of  her  fingers,  and  then  broke 
into  the  Twelfth  Etude  of  Chopin,  letting  the  piano 
whisper — a  privilege  so  seldom  accorded  to  that  be- 
laboured instrument.  Even  Mrs.  Hancock  responded 
to  it,  and  laid  down  her  cards  and  spoke. 

"Wliat  a  delicious  tune,  my  dear,"  she  said. 
"Tum-ti-ti;  tum-ti-ti!" 

The  tune  was  still  hovering  and  poised.    Eliza- 


154  ARUNDEL 

beth  put  her  hands  firmly  down  on  a  suspension 
and  stopped. 

"But  what  an  abrupt  end!"  said  Mrs.  Hancock. 

"Yes,"  said  Elizabeth,  turning  round  on  the  stool. 

When  Mrs.  Hancock  had  had  enough  patience 
and  conversation  she  secretly  rang  an  electric  bell 
which  was  fixed  to  the  underside  of  her  card-table, 
upon  which  Lind  brought  in  a  tray  of  glasses  and 
soda-water,  which  was  rightly  regarded  by  her  guests 
as  a  stirrup-cup.  This  signal  occurred  rather  earlier 
than  usual  to-night,  for  it  was  hkely  that  the  two 
lovers  would  wish  to  say  a  few  words  to  each  other 
in  the  library  before  parting.  This  was  made  com- 
pletely easy  for  them  by  Mrs.  Hancock's  sugges- 
tion that  Edith  would  find  Edward's  hat  and  coat 
for  him,  as  Lind  no  doubt  had  gone  to  bed — he  had 
left  the  soda-water  tray  about  three  minutes  be- 
fore— and  the  two  went  out  together. 

The  words  of  parting  were  short,  and  Edward, 
still  tingling  with  music,  still  inflamed  by  that  lam- 
bent fire,  went  back  to  his  house.  In  musical  mat- 
ters, despite  his  own  incompetence  in  matter  of 
performance,  he  had  an  excellent  judgment,  and  he 
knew  that  he  had  been  listening  that  night  to  the 
real  thing.  There  was  no  question  as  to  the  quaUty 
of  Elizabeth's  playing;  she  had  authority,  without 
which  the  most  agile  execution  is  no  more  than  a 
mere  facility  of  finger,  acquirable  like  the  nimble 
manoeuvres  of  a  conjurer,  and  in  itself  as  devoid  of 
artistic  merit.  That  magic,  like  his,  is  a  matter  of 
mere  manipulation,  and  no  more  constitutes  a  pian- 
ist than  does  the  power  of  pronouncing  words  with- 
out stammer  or  stumbling  constitute  an  actor.  But 
behind  EHzabeth's  playing  sat  the  master,  who  un- 
derstood by  virtue  of  perception  the  meaning  of 
music,  and  by  virtue  of  hands  co-ordinated  with  that 


ELIZABETH  ENTERS  155 

burning  perception,  could  interpret.  And,  above  all, 
he  felt  that  in  music  she  spoke  his  language,  ut- 
tered the  idioms  he  understood  but  could  not  give 
voice  to.  Her  soul  and  his  were  natives  of  the 
same  melodious  country;  not  foreigners  to  each 
other. 

He  told  himself,  and  honestly  believed  it,  that 
there  was  no  more  than  this — as  if  this  was  not 
enough — in  the  hour  he  had  spent  in  Mrs.  Han- 
cock's drawing-room.  He  was  not  even  sure  whether 
he  liked  Elizabeth  or  not;  certainly  she  was  as  dif- 
ferent as  might  well  be  from  the  type  of  marriage- 
able maidenhood  which  had  so  greatly  and  so  sanely 
attracted  him  that  he  rejoiced  to  know  that  his 
future  life  would  be  intimately  and  entirely  bound 
up  in  hers.  All  through  dinner  Elizabeth  had  meant 
nothing  at  all  to  him,  and  he  had  noted,  rather  than 
admired,  her  vitality,  for  certainly  she  was  like  a 
light  brought  into  a  dusky  room,  dispersing  the 
shadows  that  completely  and  somnolently  brooded 
in  the  corners,  and  restoring  colour  to  mere  grey 
outhnes.  But  he  was  not  very  sure  that  he  desired 
or  appreciated  this  unusual  illumination;  they  had 
all  of  them  got  on  very  nicely  in  the  dark,  where 
if  you  dozed  a  little,  there  was  not  much  probability 
of  being  detected,  and  of  late  he  had  sat  with  chair 
close  to  Edith's,  so  to  speak,  and  listened  with 
tenderness  to  Mrs.  Hancock  talking  on  in  her  sleep. 
Into  this  had  Elizabeth  come  with  her  vivid  bull's- 
eye  lantern,  which  got  in  one's  eyes  a  little,  and 
was  sUghtly  disconcerting. 

So  had  it  been  until  she  played,  and  at  that  mo- 
ment and  in  that  regard  he  found  her  simply  and 
utterly  adorable;  and  he  poured  out  his  homage 
for  her  as  he  would  have  done  for  some  splendid 
Brunnhilde  awaking  and  hailing  the  sun.  And  he 
knew  the  nature  of  the  homage  he  brought,  so  he 


156  ARUNDEL 

as  yet  confidently  told  himself,  a  homage  as  sex- 
less and  impersonal  as  that  which  prompts  the 
presentation  of  wreaths  to  elderly  and  perspiring 
conductors  at  the  close  of  an  act.  It  needed  not 
a  Brunnhilde  to  evoke  that,  for  it  was  merely  the 
tribute  to  artistic  interpretation  manifested  by  man 
or  woman,  and  responded  to  by  those  who  could 
appreciate.  Mrs.  Hancock's  deplorable  ejaculation 
of  "Tum-ti-ti;  tum-ti-ti"  was  of  the  same  nature. 
It  was  not  a  tribute  to  Elizabeth,  nor  was  his  aban- 
donment of  himself  to  her  spell,  or,  at  the  most,  it 
was  a  tribute  to  her  fingers,  for  the  music  that  flowed 
from  them.  But  how  he  would  have  worshipped 
that  gift  in  another;  if  only  it  had  been  Edith  who 
played ! 

He  had  sat  himself  down  in  the  broad  window- 
seat  of  his  drawing-room,  which  looked  out  into 
the  garden  and  trees  that  a  fortnight  before  had 
stood  made  of  ebony  and  ivory  in  the  blaze  of  the 
May  moonlight,  on  the  night  when  the  house  next 
door  had  been  empty.  To-night  it  was  tenanted, 
tenanted  by  the  girl  who,  within  a  few  months, 
would  come  across  so  short  a  space  of  lawn  and 
make  her  home  with  him,  tenanted  also  by  the 
dark,  vivid  presence  of  her  who  had  made  music 
to  them.  In  his  drawing-room  where  he  sat,  empty 
and  blazing  with  electric  light,  for  some  unaccounted 
impulse  had  made  him  turn  on  all  the  switches, 
stood  his  big  black  piano,  with  inviolate  top,  stand- 
ing open.  How  would  Ehzabeth  awake  the  soul 
in  it,  even  as  Siegfried  had  by  his  kiss  awakened 
Brunnhilde,  by  the  magic  of  her  comprehending 
fingers!  Almost  he  could  see  her  there,  with  her 
profile,  a  little  defiant,  a  little  mutinous,  cut,  cameo- 
wise,  against  the  dark  grey  of  his  walls,  with  her 
eye  kindling  as  she  listened  to  the  music  in  her 
brain,  which  flowed  like  some  virile,  tumultuous 


ELIZABETH  ENTERS  157 

heart-beat  out  of  her  fingers.  How  well  she  un- 
derstood the  tramp  and  colour  of  that  Novelette! — 
yet  he  knew  he  understood  it  quite  as  well  him- 
self— how  unerringly  her  fingers  marshalled  and 
painted  it!  In  her  was  the  secret,  the  initiation, 
and — oh,  how  much  it  meant! — in  her  also  was  the 
mysterious  power  of  communication.  She  was  not 
one  of  those  incomplete  souls  who  are  born  dumb, 
as  so  many  were.  She  could  speak.  .  .  .  Others 
were  born  empty,  and  so  their  power  of  speech  was 
but  a  bottle  of  senseless  sounds,  of  flat  wooden 
phrases.  .  .  .  And  then,  with  a  shock  of  surprise 
to  himself,  he  became  aware  that  he  was  thinking 
no  longer  about  the  music  which  EUzabeth  made, 
but  Elizabeth  who  made  it. 


CHAPTER   VTI 

THE    INTERMEZZO 

Business  on  the  Stock  Exchange  had  been,  as  was 
not  uncommon,  somewhat  slack  during;  this  month 
of  June,  and  Edward  found  it  easy  to  get  down 
to  Heathmoor  l\v  the  train  that  arrived  soon  after 
five  instead  of  that  which  started  an  houi*  later.  It 
was  natural  for  him,  after  getting  rirl  of  the  habili- 
ments of  town,  to  come  round  next  door,  where 
he  would  find  Mrs.  Hancock  and  Edith  rearly  to 
give  him  a  slightly  belated  cup  of  tea  in  the  garden- 
house  that  adjoined  the  croquet-lawn.  As  a  rule 
Elizabeth  was  not  there,  but  her  whereabouts  was 
indicated  by  the  sound  of  the  piano,  for  she  was 
practising  with  the  energ>^  of  the  enthusiast,  and 
found  this  hour,  when  the  house  was  empty  and 
she  could  escape  from  the  sense  of  disturbing  or 
being  disturbed,  the  most  congenial  time  in  which 
to  make  as  much  noise  as  she  chose,  or  to  practise  a 
particular  bar  in  endless  repetition.  Mrs.  Hancock 
continued  to  believe — and  to  reiterate — that  Ed- 
ward was  the  maestro  and  that  Elizabeth  followed, 
faint  but  pursuing,  in  the  wake  of  his  victorious  fin- 
gers, and  she  often  asked  him  how  he  thought  she 
was  getting  on.  He  frequently  dined  there,  and, 
with  the  regularity  that  characterized  her,  she  in- 
sisted on  his  playing  one  or  more  of  his  "pieces" 
when  he  had  smoked  the  cigarette  that  detained 
him  in  the  dining-room.  And  on  these  occasions 
his  eye  was  wont  to  seek  Elizabeth's  in  tacit  apol- 

158 


THE  INTERMEZZO  159 

ogy,  and  though  no  word  had  passed  between  them 
on  the  subject  the  situation  was  quite  clear  to  them 
both.  More  than  once  he  had  attempted  to  con- 
vince Mrs.  Hancock  that  while  he  could  only  strum 
abominably  her  niece  played,  and  she,  perfectly  in- 
credulous, thought  it  was  nice  of  him  to  be  so  modest 
himself  and  to  encourage  Elizabeth.  So,  protest 
being  utterly  useless,  he  played,  with  Ehzabeth  in 
his  confidence.  But  the  sense  of  this  secret  between 
them — for  Edith  shared  her  mother's  belief  in  the 
maestro — gave  him  a  pecuhar  and,  so  he  still  told 
himself,  an  inexplicable  satisfaction.  With  that 
knowledge  he  enjoyed,  rather  than  otherwise,  his 
own  long-drawn  murders  of  the  classical  authors, 
and  he  completely  understood  the  dimpling  smile 
that  fluttered,  light-winged,  over  Elizabeth's  face 
as  he  performed  his  ruthless  deeds. 

During  this  last  fortnight  life  at  Arundel  had 
pursued,  to  all  outward  appearance,  the  regulated 
and  emotionless  course  that  characterized  existence 
at  Heathmoor.  The  time  of  strawberries  had  come, 
and  therefore  also  the  time  of  garden  parties;  and 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  the  arrival  of  the  even- 
ing train  from  town  the  well-laid  roads  were  thick 
with  hurrying  flannelled  figures,  carrying  lawn-tennis 
racquets  or  croquet  mallets,  for  this  latter  game  was 
taken  with  extreme  seriousness,  and  nobody  among 
the  regular  players  would  have  dreamed  of  trust- 
ing to  a  mallet  of  the  house.  Elizabeth  naturally 
had  her  share  in  these  invitations,  and  it  was  a 
source  of  never-ending  surprise  to  see  young  and 
athletically  limbed  men,  of  the  same  species  ap- 
parently as  those  who  in  India  spent  their  leisure 
in  polo  and  pig-sticking,  pursuing  their  laborious 
way  through  hoop  after  hoop,  and  talking  about 
the  game  afterwards  with  greater  gusto  and  minute- 
ness than  if  they  had  been  tiger-shooting.     Chief 


160  ARUNDEL 

amongst  those  heroes  of  the  lawn  was  Edward, 
but  he,  as  she  did  him  the  justice  to  observe,  pre- 
sented the  reticence  of  the  accustomed  conqueror 
and  sat  silent  when  the  Vicar  and  Mr.  Dale  "lived 
their  triumphs  o'er  again."  Elizaljeth  felt  that  to 
be  like  him,  but  she  made  the  admission  grudgingly. 
The  fact  that  she  grudged  him  such  credit  was 
symptomatic  of  her  feelings  towards  him,  and  in 
especial  of  those  feelings  which  she  did  not  admit. 
Though  she  would  honestly  have  denied  it,  she  was 
fighting  him.  Again  and  again,  not  knowing  why, 
she  assured  herself  that  he  was  a  very  ordinary 
young  man.  that  Edith  must  be  blind,  so  to  speak, 
to  see  anything  in  him.  Except  in  on^  point,  she 
told  herself  that  there  was  nothing  there,  that  a 
lanky  frame — it  was  beyond  her  power  to  deny  his 
inches — crowned  by  a  vacant  face,  was  the  har- 
bourage of  an  insignificant  soul.  He  spent  his  day 
among  the  money-bags,  his  evening  on  the  croquet- 
lawn,  and  found  that  sufficient  for  him.  He  was 
not  nearly  worthy  of  Edith  or  of  Edith's  inexplica- 
ble adoration;  he  was  not  even,  so  he  appeared  to 
Elizabeth's  eye,  in  love  with  her,  which  would  have 
been  a  foundation  for  worthiness.  He  seemed  in- 
dulgent of  her,  kind  to  her,  sometimes  a  little  im- 
patient of  her.  There  Elizabeth  did  not  wholly 
acquit  her  cousin  of  blame ;  she  set  him,  willy-nilly, 
on  a  pedestal,  and  those  on  pedestals,  for  he  did 
not  deprecate  the  plinth,  are  bound  to  stoop.  But 
he  should  have  stepped  down  from  the  pedestal, 
he  should  not  have  consented  to  be  edified  into 
the  statuesque;  here  was  the  ground  of  Elizabeth's 
censure  of  him.  In  fine,  she  reminded  herself 
twenty  times  a  day  of  some  reason  for  belittling  to 
her  own  mind  her  cousin's  betrothed,  and  concealed 
from  herself  that  she  belittled  him.  That  was  an 
affair  of  her  instinct,  and  instinctively  she  knew, 


THE  INTERMEZZO  161 

though  she  whispered  it  not  to  herself,  why  she  did 
it,  for  she  feared  to  give  rein  to  her  liking  for  him. 

One  exception  she  made  in  this  policy  of  self- 
defence;  in  one  thing  she  gave  him  his  due,  for 
she  never  attempted  to  deny  or  belittle  the  validity 
of  his  musical  passion.  It  was  a  fingerless  passion, 
so  to  speak;  between  his  brain  and  his  hands  there 
seemed  to  be  a  total  want  of  co-ordination;  he  was 
paralytic,  but  she  could  not  doubt  the  intensity  of 
his  perception.  He  was  but  an  alphabet-babbler 
when  he  tried  to  communicate,  but  when  she  played 
to  him  she  knew  by  a  glance  at  his  face  whether  she 
did  ill  or  well.  Thus,  ironically,  Mrs.  Hancock's 
judgment  of  him  as  maestro  and  Elizabeth  as  pupil 
was  strangely  correct,  and  the  girl  did  not  attempt 
to  conceal  from  herself  that  it  was  of  him  and  his 
opinion  that  she  thought,  when  she  practised,  with 
a  greater  diligence  and  fire  than  had  ever  been  hers 
before,  the  music  which  he  understood  and  loved 
so  discerningly.  Day  by  day  she  slaved  exultingly 
at  the  piano,  and  the  thought  that  he  would  appre- 
ciate her  progress  became  an  inspiration  to  her.  But 
at  present  this  reverence  for  his  gift  was  like  an 
insoluble  lump  in  the  cup  of  her  cold  indifference 
towards  him;  it  neither  sweetened  nor  embittered 
the  beverage.  But  certainly  through  him  she  was 
beginning  to  get  closer  every  day  to  the  ineffable 
spring  and  spirit  from  which  that  bewildering  beauty 
of  sound  is  poured  forth,  that  "dweller  in  the  in- 
nermost," one  glance  from  whom  sends  the  beholder 
mad  with  melody. 

On  one  afternoon  at  the  end  of  the  month,  gra- 
ciously exempt  from  garden-parties,  Elizabeth  was 
alone  in  the  house,  for  the  hour  after  lunch  had 
been  too  hot  for  Mrs.  Hancock's  drive,  and  the 
whole  curriculum  of  the  day  had  been  upset,  tea 
having  taken  place  at  the  very  unusual  hour  of 


162  ARUNDEL 

half-past  four,  so  that  she  might  enjoy  a  cooler 
progress  between  that  time  and  dinner — a  disloca- 
tion of  affairs  that  had  not  occurred  since  the  year 
before  last.  But  the  heat  was  so  intense  that  she 
really  hardly  cared  at  all  whether  Denton  and 
Lind  thought  it  odd  or  not,  and  punctually  at  five 
she  had  set  out  with  Edith,  leavhig  a  message  with 
Lind  that  if  ?vlr.  Holroyd  came  round  he  was  to 
be  told  that  they  were  out,  but  would  be  back  by 
half-past  six.  Thus — here  Denton  became  con- 
cerned— they  would  have  time  to  go  round  by  the 
mill,  proceeding  ver>'  slowly  where  the  road  had 
been  newly  mended,  and  so  forth.  But  if — here 
Lind  was  attentive  again — Mr.  Holroyd  c?lme  by  the 
six  o'clock  train  he  might  be  ofi"ered  a  wiiisky  and 
soda  and  asked  to  wait,  but  if  by  the  five  o'clock 
train  the  original  message  should  be  delivered.  Then 
Filson  brought  out  a  light  dust-cloak  and  the  heav- 
ier l)luc  one  was  taken  out;  then  it  was  put  back 
again  in  case  the  evening  got  chilly.  They  passed 
over  the  bridge  by  the  station  the  moment  after 
the  five  o'clock  train  got  in,  and  Edith  thought 
she  saw  Edward  stepping  out  of  it,  but  she  was  not 
sure.  But  Edward  saw  the  motor  and  its  passen- 
gers without  any  douljt  whatever. 

He  went  straight  to  his  house  and  out  into  the 
garden.  There  from  the  open  French  windows  of 
the  house  next  door  the  piano  was  plainly  audible. 
Elizabeth  was  playing  the  first  of  the  Brahms'  in- 
termezzi, and  the  air  sang  like  a  bed  of  breeze- 
stirred  flowers.  ...  In  less  than  a  minute  he  had 
rung  the  bell,  and  in  answer  to  Lind's  message  had 
said  he  would  come  in  and  wait.  In  spite  of  the 
fact  that  the  offer  of  whisky  and  soda  applied  only 
to  the  six  o'clock  train  Lind  suggested  it.  But 
Edward  said  he  wanted  nothing,  and,  turning  the 


THE  INTERMEZZO  163 

handle  of  the  drawing-room  door  very  softly,  he 
entered. 

Elizabeth,  utterly  intent  on  her  music,  heard 
nothing;  of  his  coming,  and  he  sat  down  in  a  chair 
close  to  the  door,  knowing  that  he  was  doing  a  rude 
and  an  ill-bred  thing,  knowing,  too,  in  his  heart 
that  he  was  doing  worse  than  that,  for  he  was  defi- 
nitely indulging  infidelity,  even  though  the  infi- 
delity was,  in  fact,  no  more  than  listening  to  the 
girl's  playing.  But  he  knew  quite  well  why  he  lis- 
tened, and  it  was  not  for  the  sake  of  the  music 
alone;  it  was  to  allow  himself,  unseen  and  unsus- 
pected— for  there  was  in  this  questionable  conduct 
something  of  the  self-efi"acing  quality  of  love — to 
see  incarnated  the  dreams  from  which  he  had  roused 
himself  when  a  month  ago  he  engaged  himself  to 
Edith.  For  years  of  his  youth  he  had  cherished 
this  unrealized  vision,  fondling  it  in  his  dreams; 
now,  when  too  early  he  had  told  himself  that  the 
time  for  dreaming  was  done  and  he  must  awake  to 
the  average  humdrum  satisfaction  of  domesticity 
with  a  delightful  partner,  the  dream  incarnate  had 
walked  into  his  waking  hours. 

The  sound  of  what  she  played  had  been  the  mag- 
net which  drew  him  here,  but  now  that  he  had  come 
he  was  scarcely  conscious  of  her  music,  which 
throughout  this  month  had  been  that  w^hich  at- 
tracted him  to  her.  Now  it  was  as  if  that  had  done 
its  work,  for  it  had  brought  his  heart  to  her,  and 
Nature,  or  the  law  of  attraction,  threw  it  aside  like 
a  discarded  instrument,  and  for  the  first  moments 
that  he  sat  here  he  scarcely  heard  the  sweetness  of 
the  melody.  Then  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  strong 
and  tender  tune  was  Elizabeth's  soul  made  audible; 
she  played,  thinking  she  was  alone,  as  she  had  never 
played  before.  She  seemed  to  reveal  herself.  .  .  . 
And  then  it  struck  him  that  he  had  done,  and  was 


164  ARUNDEL 

doing,  what  was  equivalent  to  looking  through  a 
keyhole  at  somebody  who  thought  she  was  alone. 
Shame  awoke  in  him  for  that,  but  shame  passed 
and  was  swallowed  up  in  his  intense  consciousness 
of  her,  of  Elizabeth  and  the  tune  that  was  Eliza- 
beth herself. 

She  finished,  and  sat  still  for  a  moment  with  her 
fingers  still  resting  on  the  last  chord.  Then  she 
gave  a  long  sigh,  and.  turning  round,  saw  him. 

"Cousin  Edward!"  she  said,  almost  incredulously, 
feeling  exactly  what  just  now  he  had  felt,  namely, 
that  he  had  been  looking  through  a  keyhole  at  her. 

He  got  up,  only  dimly  conscious  of  the  rebuke  in 
her  voice. 

"I  came  in  after  you  had  begun  that  intermezzo," 
he  said,  "and  I  didn't  want  to  disturb  you.  I  know 
how  you  hate  an  interruption.     I " 

He  paused  a  moment,  dead  to  all  else  except  the 
fact  of  her. 

"I  never  heard  you  play  like  that  before,"  he  said. 
"It  was  you." 

She  still  looked  troubled. 

"I  don't  think  you  should  have  done  that,"  she 
said.  "Didn't  Lincl  tell  you  that  Aunt  Julia  and 
Edith  were  out?" 

"Yes.  If  you  think  I  oughtn't  to  have  come  in 
I  am  sorry.  But  I  can't  help  rejoicing  that  I  have 
heard  you  play  like  that." 

Suddenly  it  seemed  to  Elizabeth  that  it  was  ri- 
diculous of  her  to  object  to  what  he  had  done.  She 
had  often  played  to  him  alone  before,  and  what 
difference  did  it  make  if  on  this  occasion  she  did 
not  know  of  his  presence?  But  her  reason  was  at 
variance  with  her  instinct. 

She  smiled  at  him. 

"It  is  nothing,"  she  said;  "I  was  absurd  to  mind. 


THE  INTERMEZZO  165 

I  am  glad  you  thought  I  played  it  well.  Have  you 
had  tea?    Shall  we  go  into  the  garden?" 

He  saw  his  danger  slipping  away  from  him;  he 
had  but  to  make  a  commonplace  reply  and  it  would 
be  past.  But  he  saw  his  dream,  that  had  become 
incarnate,  slipping  away  from  him  also,  and  at  the 
moment  that  meant  everything  in  the  world  to  him. 
He  was  reckless,  on  fire,  and  came  close  to  her  and 
stammered  a  little  when  he  spoke. 

"For  the  last  fortnight,"  he  said,  "I  have  thought 
of  nothing  else  but  you " 

Loyalty  and  cowardice  mixed  caused  him  to  stop. 
He  saw  amazement  and  utter  surprise  flood  Eliza- 
beth's face;  he  saw  also,  faint  as  the  reflection  of 
far-away  lightning,  something  that  responded  to 
him,  something  that  leaped  towards  him  instead 
of  recoiling  from  him.  But  all  the  rest  of  her  was 
lost  in  pure  bewilderment,  which  only  wanted  to  get 
rid  of  him.  She  did  not  even  answer  him,  but,  with 
finger  and  following  eye,  pointed  to  the  door. 

"I  beg  your  pardon!"  he  said  quickly. 

"Please  go!"  said  the  girl. 

She  sat  down  on  the  music-stool  which  she  had 
so  lately  left,  and  while  waiting  for  her  brain  to 
work  again  struck  a  random  note  or  two.  As  far 
as  she  felt  anything  she  felt  surprise.  Then  in 
a  flash  came  indignation  that,  while  he  was  but  a 
month  old  in  his  engagement  to  Edith,  he  should 
speak  thus  to  her.  And  following  instantly  on  that, 
like  some  burglar  violently  breaking  into  her  mind, 
came  the  unbidden  thought,  "He  cares  for  me." 

She  tried  to  eject  it;  she  called  for  help,  so  to 
speak,  but  the  burglar  contemplated  her  quite 
calmly,  as  if  he  had  a  right  to  be  there.  He  seemed 
to  speak  to  her,  to  say,  "You  will  have  to  get  used 
to  me."     In  turn  she  looked  at  him  and  ceased 


166  ARUNDEL 

calling  for  help.  Something  inside  her — that,  with- 
out doubt,  which  Edward  had  seen  faintly  behind 
her  first  amazement  and  surprise — seemed  to  recog- 
nize, to  smile  at  him.  .  .  .  And  Elizabeth  ceased 
from  being  surprised  at  Edward  and  became  sur- 
prised at  herself.  But  what  was  to  be  done?  Be- 
yond all  doubt  the  answer  was  clear.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  done  at  all;  at  any  rate,  there  was 
nothing  for  her  to  do.  It  was  ludicrous  to  con- 
template telling  Aunt  Julia;  it  would  not  have  been 
more  ludicrous  to  tell  Edith.  Nobody  must  know; 
nobody  must  ever  so  faintly  conjecture  what  had 
happened.  Edward  was  going  to  marry  Edith  on 
the  eighth  of  October,  and  there  were  *to  be  six 
bridesmaids,  of  whom  she  herself  was  to  be  one. 

Elizabeth's  surprise  at  herself  waxed  and  grew, 
and  her  surprise  was  due  to  the  fact  that  she  was 
not  in  the  least  shocked.  She  made  one  unsuccessful 
attempt  to  tell  herself  that  Edward  had  not  meant 
what  he  said,  but  she  swiftly  gave  that  up,  being 
quite  aware  that  he  meant  much  more  than  he  had 
said.  His  trembling  voice,  his  fingers  that  plaited 
themselves  together,  told  her  that.  He  was  quite 
in  earnest.  Then,  as  suddenly  as  if  she  had  been 
shaken  out  of  some  deep  sleep,  she  obtained  com- 
plete control  and  consciousness  of  herself.  She  was 
not  shocked  because  she  welcomed  what  he  had  said, 
because  she  responded  to  it.  Shame  and  a  secret 
rapture  overwhelmed  her,  and  the  burglar  went  neck 
and  crop  out  of  the  wide-flung  window  of  her  mind. 
It  was  not  till  she  had  turned  him  out  that  any 
struggle  in  her  own  mind  began.  She  knew  now 
why  she  had  made  a  habit  of  belittling  and  criti- 
cizing him  to  herself:  she  had  been  defending  her- 
self against  him.  Now  she  had  to  defend  herself 
against  herself  as  well.  She  had  to  inquire  into  the 
fidelity  of  her  own  garrison.     And  she  knew  that 


THE  INTERMEZZO  167 

there  were  traitors  among  them.  But  still  she  was 
not  the  least  shocked ;  certainly  they  must  be  turned 
out  or  executed  or  drawn  and  quartered,  but  their 
crime  against  herself  did  not  anger  her  against  them. 
The  practical  aspect  of  the  situation  engaged 
her  again,  and  she  saw  now  that  there  was  just  one 
thing  to  be  done,  namely,  to  obliterate  altogether 
what  had  happened — not  to  think  of  it  any  more 
at  all.  No  doubt  it  was  very  bad  that  Edith's  af- 
fianced lover  should  have  said  what  he  had  said, 
should  have  meant  so  much  more  than  he  said,  and 
that  she  should  not  have  been  horrified  at  him,  but 
only  surprised,  and  when  her  surprise  was  passed 
that  she  should  have  found  that  there  was  response 
to  him  in  her  soul.  But  all  this  must  be  expunged, 
and  if  she  could  not  forget  it  she  must  remember 
it  only  as  some  queer  distorted  dream  that  in  reality 
is  nonsense,  though,  while  the  dreamer  still  slept, 
it  seemed  so  intensely  real.  She  felt  she  could  an- 
swer for  herself  in  this  matter,  that  she  was  quite 
competent  to  seal  the  affair  up  in  her  mind,  as  bees 
seal  up  in  wax  some  intruder  to  their  hive.  Edward 
must  also  see  that  to  her  the  whole  episode  was  no 
longer  existent,  since  non-existence  was  undoubtedly 
the  best  fate  for  it,  and  thus  her  manner  to  him 
must  be  exactly  what  it  had  been  before  he  had 
made  his  unfortunate  intrusion.  Hardly  less  im- 
portant was  it  that  Edith  and  her  aunt  should  re- 
main unaware  that  anything  had  occurred  between 
Edward  and  herself.  This  gave  a  reason  the  more 
for  her  treating  him  quite  normally.  Only  .  .  . 
how  did  she  treat  him  before?  .  .  .  How  did  she 
look  at  him?  Did  she  usually  smile  when  she  spoke 
to  him?  She  felt  that  to  meet  him  again  now  with- 
out consciousness  of  what  had  just  happened  would 
be  like  meeting  a  perfect  stranger.  But  it  had  got 
to  be  done.    To  admit  in  her  bearing  to  him  that 


168  ARUNDEL 

any  recollection  of  the  scene  still  had  a  place  in 
her  mind,  to  indicate  even  by  coldness  of  manner 
and  an  aloof  demeanour  that  he  must  keep  his  dis- 
tance was  impossible,  for  Edith  would  be  sure  to 
notice  it,  and,  above  everything;  ahnost,  it  was  es- 
sential that  Edith  should  be  utterly  unaware  of  any 
— she  hardly  knew  what  to  call  it — any  understand- 
ing or  misunderstaniling  between  them.  Over  those 
three  minutes  there  must  be  pasted  a  sheet  of  white 
paper.  It  seemed  to  her  well  within  her  power 
to  do  that.  And  she  must  continue  to  make  her 
mind  fight  and  belittle  and  criticize  him.  That 
ought  to  be  easy  now  that  he  had  done  what  she 
knew  to  be  a  despicable  thing.  Unfortunately  she 
(hd  not  despise  him  for  being  despicaljle,  or,  at  the 
most,  her  reason  did,  but  not  her  instinct. 

She  heard  the  sound  of  the  motor-wlieels  crunch- 
ing the  gravel,  and  felt  perfectly  prepared  to  re- 
sume not  only  her  natural  manner,  but  her  normal 
consciousness.  She  swung  round  on  her  music-stool 
and  began  the  intermezzo  again,  getting  up  as  her 
aunt  entered  with  Edith. 

"Well?  And  I  hope  you've  had  a  good  prac- 
tice, dear!"  said  Mrs.  Hancock  very  cordially.  "And 
we've  had  a  pleasant  drive,  and  not  so  dusty  as 
I  expected  it  would  be.  But  we  hurried  back  sooner 
than  I  intended  originally,  because  there  was  a 
huge  black  cloud  coming  up,  and  Denton  said  he 
wouldn't  be  surprised  if  it  came  on  to  rahi  very 
suddenly.  So  I  think  I  shall  sit  out  in  the  garden 
to  get  a  little  more  air,  and  you  and  Edith  might 
have  a  game  of  croquet.  I  expect  Edward  will 
come  in  when  the  six  o'clock  train  arrives.  Dear 
me,  it  is  after  six.  Perhaps  he  has  been,  Edith,  and 
went  back.  Lind  will  know.  Then  you  can  all  three 
play  croquet.    If  you  touch  the  bell,  dear." 


THE  INTERMEZZO  169 

Elizabeth  found  the  natural  manner  perfectly 
easy, 

"He  came  in,"  she  said,  "and  went  back  to  his 
house  again,  I  think.    I  was  practising." 

Suddenly  she  found  herself  wondering  whether 
her  manner  was  quite  natural,  and  she  glanced  at 
Edith,  who  was  "touching"  the  bell. 

"No  doubt  he  did  not  want  to  disturb  your  prac- 
tice," said  Mrs.  Hancock,  who  always  liked  to  re- 
mind herself  of  the  comforts  she  showered  on  other 
people,  "for  I  have  given  strict  orders,  dear,  that 
you  are  not  to  be  disturbed  when  you  are  prac- 
tising. Perhaps  he  is  in  tlic  garden.  We  will  call 
to  him  over  the  wall.  I  want  him  to  come  in  to  dine, 
and  you  shall  both  play  to  us  afterwards.  I  wonder 
if  we  could  not  get  some  nice  duets  with  an  easy 
part  for  you,  dear,  which  you  could  play  together. 
Look,  it  has  begun  to  rain  already ;  Denton  was  quite 
right.  I  am  glad  he  advised  us  to  turn,  though  it 
was  Edith  who  saw  the  big  black  cloud  first.  There 
is  an  end  to  our  going  into  the  garden  and  to  your 
croquet,  I  am  afraid,  but  I  will  send  a  note  round 
to  Edward.  I  thhik  that  was  a  flash  of  lightning. 
Perhaps  you  would  write  the  note  for  me,  Edith,  and 
give  it  to  Lind.  Oh  yes,  Lind,  there  will  be  a  note. 
Yes,  there  is  the  thunder.  Quite  a  loud  clap.  What 
a  blessing  we  turned!" 

Lind's  wooden  face  looked  inquiringly  round  when 
he  was  told  that  there  was  a  note  for  Edward  to 
be  taken  round,  as  if  he  expected  to  find  him  con- 
cealed under  the  piano. 

"I  thought  Mr.  Edward  was  here,  ma'am,"  he 
said.  "Perhaps  he  is  in  the  garden.  He  said  he 
would  wait." 

Elizabeth,  gathering  her  music  together,  made 
a  sudden  awkward  movement  and  spilled  it. 


170  ARUNDEL 

"No,  he  went  back  home,  Aunt  Julia,"  she  said. 
"He  came  in  when  I  was  practising,  as  I  told 
you." 

"I  told  him  you  were  out,  ma'am,"  repeated  Lind, 
"and  he  said  he  woulfl  wait." 

Elizabeth  felt  a  wild  exasperation.  There  was 
nothing  to  explain,  and  yet  she  had  to  go  on  ex- 
plaining. 

"But  he  went  away  again,"  she  repeated. 

"Yes,  dear;  I  quite  understand,"  said  Mrs.  Han- 
cock. "He  saw  you  were  practising.  Did  he  say  he 
would  come  back?    If  so,  I  need  not  send  this  note!" 

It  all  seemed  like  a  plot  of  tlie  Inquisition. 

"No,  he  said  nothing,"  remarked  Elizabeth  rather 
shortly,  feeling  that  this  perfectly  straightforward 
visit  was  somehow  becoming  suspicious. 

"Did  he  stop  long?"  asked  Etlith,  quite  casually. 

"No,  five  minutes — ten,  perhaps,"  said  Elizabeth. 
"I  really  did  not  time  him." 

Mrs.  Hancock  always  kept  a  feather  in  a  small 
vase  of  water  on  her  writing-table.  With  this  she 
smeared  the  gum  on  the  flap  of  envelopes  in  prefer- 
ence to  the  more  ordinary  use  of  the  tongue  on  such 
occasions.  It  seemed  to  her  slightly  indelicate  to 
put  out  her  tongue — even  the  tip  of  it — in  pubhc; 
and  besides,  who  knew  what  the  gum  was  made  of 
or  who  had  been  touching  it?  This  genteel  ob- 
servance singularly  annoyed  Elizabeth,  and  it  was 
her  privilege  to  snatch  away  envelopes  from  her 
aunt  and  lick  them  herself,  with,  so  to  speak,  yards 
of  tongue  protruding,  rather  than  allow  the  use  of 
the  horrible  feather.  Here  she  saw  her  opportu- 
nity, and  with  a  complete  resumption  of  her  natural 
manner,  which  up  to  that  moment  had  not  been  a 
complete  success,  upset  the  feather's  water  and 
brought  an  end  to  the  senseless  catechism. 

Lind  was  obliging  enough  to  take  the  note  him- 


THE  INTERMEZZO  171 

self,  and  prepared  for  this  expedition  of  about  forty- 
yards  by  putting  on  a  cap,  a  mackintosh,  and  go- 
loshes, and  providing  himself  with  an  umbrella. 
There  was  need  only  for  a  verbal  answer,  but  he 
waited  some  five  minutes  before  an  acceptance 
came.  By  this  time  the  rain  had  completely  ceased, 
but  Edward,  from  his  window,  saw  him  put  up  his 
umbrella  again — no  doubt  to  guard  against  drip- 
pings from  the  trees.  He  observed  this  with  a  very 
minute  detached  feeling  of  interest.  Then  he  sprang 
up  to  call  to  Lind  and  substitute  "regrets"  for  his 
"delight."  Then  that  impulse  (Hed  also,  and  he  sat 
down  to  think  over  what  had  happened. 

He  did  not  fall  into  the  mistake  of  considering 
it  a  little  thing,  though  the  incident  in  itself  was 
nothing.  It  was,  at  the  least,  a  feather  of  carded 
cloud  high  up  in  the  heavens,  that  told,  though  so 
insignificant  and  remote  a  thing,  of  the  great  wind 
that  blew  there.  He  had  not  spoken  idly;  rather, 
he  scarcely  knew  that  he  had  spoken  at  all  until 
his  own  words  sounded  in  his  ears.  He  had  not 
addressed  pretty  words  to  a  pretty  girl;  it  seemed 
to  him  that  they  had  been  squeezed,  as  it  were, 
by  some  force  infinitely  superior  to  his  power  of 
will  out  of  his  resisting  mouth.  His  whole  conduct, 
from  the  chance  hearing  of  the  Brahms'  intermezzo 
in  his  garden,  leading  on  to  his  ill-bred  and  silent 
intrusion  into  the  room  where  Elizabeth  played  and 
his  words,  all  seemed  to  have  been  dictated  by  an 
irresistible  power  that  arose  out  of  the  sense  of  his 
incarnate  dream.  It  had  been  perfectly  true  that 
for  the  last  fortnight  he  had  thought  of  nothing  else 
but  her,  that  the  affairs  of  every  day  had  for  him 
moved  like  shadows  across  that  solid  background. 
...  In  the  meantime  he  had  promised  his  sub- 
stance and  his  life  to  one  of  the  shadows,  and,  as 
far  as  he  knew  or  guessed,  he  was  nothing  more 


172  ARUNDEL 

than  a  shadow,  rather  a  distasteful  one,  to  the  girl 
who  for  him  wa.s  the  only  reality. 

Then  the  practical  side  of  tlie  situation,  the  "what 
next"  which  always  hastens  to  stir  the  boiling  pot- 
tage of  our  emotions  with  its  bony  fingers,  held  his 
attention,  even  as  it  had  held  Elizal)eth's.  He 
came  to  the  same  conclusions,  but  with  an  important 
reservation.  She  had  consigned  the  whole  affair  to 
complete  ol)livion,  wln^ther  or  no  the  consignment 
lay  in  her  power;  he  was  as  glarl  as  she  to  consign 
it  also,  until  and  unless,  in  legal  phrase,  something 
modified  the  existing  conditions.  He  knew  very  well 
what  he  connoted  l)y  that  moflification  ;  it  meant 
some  sign,  some  signal  from  Klizabcth  tluit  should 
confirm  the  secret  welcome  that  her  amazement  had 
so  instantly  smothered.  .Just  now  he  had  told  him- 
self that  he  was  Ijut  a  distasteful  shadow  to  her; 
now  again  the  remembrance  of  her  soul's  leap 
towards  him  told  tliat  he  was  not  that.  Yet  he  had 
had  no  right  to  see  that  smotherecl  welcome  any 
more  tlian  he  had  a  right  to  intrude  himself  pri- 
vately into  her  presence.  But  in  his  heart  of  hearts 
he  was  ashamed  of  neither  feat.  Only  his  surface, 
his  sense  of  breeding,  his  respect  for  things  like 
conduct  and  convention  rebuked  him.  He  himself, 
the  seer  of  dreams,  cared  not  at  all;  rather,  he 
hugged  himself  on  it. 

He  had  drifted  away  from  practical  considera- 
tions and  wrenched  himself  back  to  them.  On  the 
eighth  of  October  next,  as  matters  stood,  he  was 
to  be  married  to  Edith,  and  his  conduct — again 
with  that  reservation — must  be  framed  on  the  lines 
demanded  by  that  condition.  He  felt  no  doubt 
whatever  that  Elizabeth  would  breathe  no  word 
of  what  had  passed  to  her  aunt  or  Edith,  for,  if 
she  did  so,  it  would  imply  wanton  mischief  on 
her  part,  of  which  he  knew  her  to  be  incapable,  or 


THE  INTERMEZZO  173 

the  determination  to  stop  his  marriage  for — for 
other  reasons.  .  .  .  She  would  only  speak  if  she 
intended  to  spoil  or  to  stop.  She  might,  it  was 
very  likely  that  she  would,  interpose  between  her- 
self and  him  that  screen  of  manner,  invisible  as  a 
sheet  of  glass,  which  yet  cuts  off  all  rays  of  heat 
from  a  fire,  while  it  suffers  to  pass  through  it  the 
sparkle  of  its  brightness.  She  would  j)r()ba))ly  ap- 
pear to  others  to  shine  on  him  as  before,  but  he, 
poor  shivering  wretch,  would  know  that  all  warmth 
had  been  cut  off  from  him. 

For  a  moment  his  passion  blazed  up  within  him, 
and  he  felt  himself  barbarian  and  primitive  man 
without  code  of  morals,  without  regard  for  honour 
and  environment.  He  who  spent  his  innocuous 
days  in  an  office  making  money,  wearing  a  black 
coat,  living  the  dull,  respectable,  stereotyped  life, 
who  spent  his  leisure  in  reading  papers  about  af- 
fairs that  he  cared  not  one  drop  of  heart's  blood 
about,  in  tapping  foolish  croquet  balls  through  iron 
hoops,  in  playing  the  piano  at  Heathmoor  dinner- 
parties, in  enveloping  himself  and  his  soul  in  the 
muffled  cotton-wool  of  comfort  and  material  ease, 
knew  that  within  this  swathed  cocoon  of  himself, 
that  lay  in  a  decorous  row  of  hundreds  of  other 
similar  cocoons,  there  lurked,  in  spite  of  all  con- 
trary appearance,  an  individual  life.  He  found 
himself  capable  of  love  and  utterly  indifferent  to 
honour  or  obligations,  regarding  them  only  as  arbi- 
trary rules  laid  down  for  the  pursuance  of  the  fool- 
ish game  of  civilized  existence.  In  essentials  he 
believed  himself  without  morals,  without  religion, 
without  any  of  the  bonds  that  have  built  up  cor- 
porate man  and  differentiate  life  from  dreams.  And 
this  flashed  discovery  did  not  disconcert  him;  he 
felt  as  if  he  had  found  a  jewel  in  the  muddy  flats 
of  existence. 


174  ARUNDET. 

Then,  in  another  flash,  he  was  back  in  his  cocoon 
ap;ain,  prisoner  in  this  decorous  roomful  of  things 
which  he  did  not  want.  There  was  a  silver 
cigarette-box  on  a  polished  table;  there  was  an  ivory- 
paper-knife  stuck  into  the  leaves  of  a  book  he  was 
reading,  a  parquetted  floor  sprea<^l  with  Persian  rugs, 
and  all  these  tilings  were  symbols  of  slavery,  chains 
that  bound  him,  or,  at  the  l)est,  bright  objects  by 
which  a  baliy  is  diverted  from  its  cr>'ing  for  the 
moon.  Anrl  the  clock  chiming  its  half-hour  after 
seven  told  him  he  must  conform  to  the  prison  rules 
and  go  to  dress  for  dinner  at  Mrs.  Hancock's. 

He  took  out  of  his  coat-pocket  an  envelope  about 
which,  up  to  this  moment,  he  had  completely  for- 
gotten. It  contained  the  ticket  for  a  box  at  the 
opera,  which  he  had  bought  that  day  for  a  per- 
formance of  "Siegfried"  in  a  week's  time.  He  hoped 
to  persuade  the  ladies  next  door  to  be  his  guests,  and 
since  the  pursuance  of  this  formed  part  of  the  re- 
sumption of  ordinary'  normal  life  he  meant  to  pro- 
pose his  plans  to  them.  But  both  when  he  bought 
the  ticket  and  now.  he  saw  that  it  might  bear  on 
the  life  that  lay  within  the  cocoon.  More  than  all 
the  material  diversion  or  business  of  the  world  he 
want<?d  to  go  with  Elizabeth  to  "Siegfried."  And, 
with  his  hat.  when  he  started  to  dinner,  he  took 
the  book  of  the  music  with  him. 

He  was  a  little  late  as  judgeii  by  the  iron  punc- 
tuality of  Arundel,  and  he  found  the  ladies  as- 
sembled. He  had  one  moment  of  intense  nervous- 
ness as  he  entered,  but  it  was  succeeded  by  an 
eagerness  not  less  intense  when  he  saw  Elizabeth's 
cordial  and  welcoming  smile.  That  set  the  note  for 
him;  he  had  already  determined  on  the  same  key, 
and  he  knew  himself  in  tune  with  it. 

As  he  shook  hands  with  the  girl  he  laughed  and 
turned   to   Mrs.   Hancock,   involuntarily  detaining 


THE  INTERMEZZO  175 

Elizabeth's  hand  one  second,  not  more,  than  was 
quite  usual. 

"I  was  rather  nervous,"  he  said.  "I  intruded  on 
Elizabeth's  practice  this  afternoon.  Perhaps  she 
has  told  you.  In  fact,  I  meant  to  stay  to  wait  for 
your  return  and  Edith's,  but  I  found  it  quite  im- 
possible." 

"Dear!"  said  Mrs.  Hancock.  "Yes,  Lind  has  told 
us  dinner  is  ready.    Did  Ehzabeth  scold  you?" 

Elizabeth,  equally  reheved,  laughed. 

"You  bchavetl  very  rudely,  Edward,"  she  said; 
"and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  didn't  tell  them.  I 
wanted  to  screen  you.  But  as  you  don't  seem  in 
the  least  ashamed  of  yourself  I  shall  ^ ve  you  uj)." 

"What  revelations  we  are  going  to  L-nve!"  said 
Mrs.  Hancock.  "Yes,  your  favourite  suup,  Ed- 
ward. Mrs.  Williams  thought  of  it  when  she  heard 
you  were  coming.  She  sent  out  for  tlie  cream.  Now 
let  us  hear  all  about  it.  I  thought  there  was  some 
mystery." 

This  was  not  quite  true.  Mrs.  Hancock  had  not 
thought  anything  whatever  about  it.  But  this 
phrase  of  purely  dinner  conversation  disconcerted 
Ehzabeth  for  a  moment.  Edith,  suddenly  looking 
up,  perceived  this  obscure  embarrassment. 

"No,  Aunt  Julia,  there  was  no  mystery,"  said 
Elizabeth.  "There  was  merely  my  mistaken  kind- 
ness in  sparing  Edward.  Now  I  shall  sacrifice  and 
expose  him.  He  came  in  when  I  was  practising 
quietly,  so  that  I  didn't  hear  him,  and  sat  down  to 
listen.  And  when  I  had  finished  my  piece  I  turned 
round  and  saw  him,  and,  of  course,  I  was  startled 
and  annoyed.  Wasn't  it  caddish  of  him!  Do  say  it 
was  caddish!" 

That  should  have  been  sufiBciently  robust  to  have 
carried  off  and  finished  with  the  subject.  But  it  so 
happened  that  Mrs.  Hancock  went  on. 


176  ARUNDEL 

"My  dear,  what  words  to  use!"  she  said.  "Edith 
will  be  up  in  arms.  Look,  there  is  another  flash 
of  lightning!  We  shall  have  a  regular  storm,  I  am 
afraid.    And  what  did  you  say  to  him?" 

"She  told  me  to  go  away,"  said  Edward,  "which 
I  did.  And  I  asked  her  to  forgive  me.  I  don't  know 
if  she's  done  that  yet." 

The  desire  for  secret  communication  with  her 
prompted  and  impelled  him. 

"I  shall  ask  her  later  if  she  has,"  he  said,  raising 
his  eyes  to  her  face.  "Her  screening  me  was  a  sign 
of  her  softening." 

"But  her  giving  you  away  now  shows  signs  of 
hardening  again,"  said  Edith. 

"Perhaps  she  doesn't  know  her  own  mind,"  said 
Edward,  still  looking  at  her,  and  knowing  but  not 
caring  that  he  had  no  business  to  force  replies  on 
her,  so  long  as  he  could  talk  with  a  meaning  that 
was  clear  to  her  alone. 

This  time  the  secret  look  that  leaped  out  to  him 
below  her  amazement  showed  again  through  the 
trouble  and  brightness  of  her  face. 

"I  know  my  mind  perfectly,"  she  said.  "I  will  for- 
give you  if  you  are  sorry." 

"I  am.  But  I  liked  hearing  you  play  when  you 
didn't  know  any  one  was  there." 

Mrs.  Hancock  looked  vaguely  and  beamingly 
round. 

"But  I  always  thought  that  people  played  best 
when  there  was  an  audience  to  listen  to  them,"  she 
said. 

"There  was  an  audience,"  remarked  Edward. 

Mrs.  Hancock  saw  the  fallacy  without  a  moment's 
hesitation,  and  enlarged  on  it  till  it  became  more 
clear  than  the  sun  at  noonday. 

"But  she  didn't  know  there  was,"  she  said  lucidly, 
"and  so  it  would  count  as  if  there  wasn't.    Listen, 


THE  INTERMEZZO  177 

there  is  the  rain  beginning  again,  like  that  beauti- 
ful piece  of  Edward's  which  always  makes  me  feel 
sad.  He  shall  play  it  to  us  after  dinner.  Was  it 
one  of  your  pieces  that  Elizabeth  was  playing  be- 
fore, Edward?" 

Mrs.  Hancock  always  spoke  of  immortal  works 
by  classical  masters  as  if  Edward's  atrocious  ren- 
derings of  them  gave  him  the  entire  right  and  pos- 
session of  them. 

"No,"  said  he,  "it  was  her  own.  I  shall  always 
think  of  it  as  the  Elizabintermezzo." 

Mrs.  Hancock  turned  an  attentive  eye  on  the 
asparagus  dish. 

"Finish  it,  Edward,"  she  said;  "it  is  the  last  you 
will  get  from  my  garden  this  year,  and  what  an 
amusing  conversation  we  are  having  about  Ehza- 
beth  and  you!  Elizabintermezzo — the  intermezzo 
which  Elizabeth  plays!  What  a  good  word! 
Quite  a  portmanteau!" 

All  this  private  signalling  of  Edward  to  her,  all 
his  double-edged  questions  as  to  whether  she  had 
forgiven  him,  seemed  to  Elizabeth  in  the  worst  pos- 
sible taste.  She  had  just  now  announced,  so  frankly 
that  she  could  not  be  imagined  to  be  serious,  that 
he  had  behaved  caddishly  that  afternoon,  and  his 
behaviour  now  seemed  to  endorse  her  judgment.  And 
yet  she,  by  her  outspokenness  perhaps,  had  set  the 
fashion  of  double-edged  speech;  it  was  justifiable 
in  him  to  think  that  she  meant  to  allude  to  what 
neither  of  them  openly  alluded  to.  But  he  was 
caddish;  she  felt  irritated  and  disgusted  with  him. 
She  looked  at  him  with  eyebrows  that  first  frow^ned 
and  then  were  raised  in  expostulation. 

"Haven't  w^e  all  had  enough  of  my  practice  this 
afternoon?"  she  said. 

As  she  looked  at  him  she  noticed  what  she  had 
noticed  a  hundred  times  before,  how  his  hair  above 


178  ARUNDEL 

his  forehead  grew  straight  and  then  fell  over  in 
a  plume.  And  while  her  mind  was  ruffled  with  his 
behaviour,  she  suddenly  liked  that  enormously.  She 
wondered  if  it  was  elastic,  that  thickness  of  erect 
hair,  like  a  spring-mattress;  she  wanted  to  put  her 
hand  on  it.  And  that  radical  and  superficial  emo- 
tion called  physical  attraction  had  begun — super- 
ficial because  it  concerns  merely  the  outward  form 
and  colour  of  face  and  limbs,  radical  because  all  the 
sex-love  in  the  world  springs  from  its  root  which 
is  buried  in  the  beating  heart  of  humanity.  After- 
wards, no  doubt,  those  roots  may  dissolve  and  be- 
come part  of  the  life-blood,  red  corpuscles  of  love, 
but  without  them  there  has  never  yet  opened  the 
glorious  scarlet  of  the  flowers  of  passion,  nor  the 
shinhig  foliage  that  keeps  the  world  green. 

Thus,  at  the  very  moment  when  he  was  indif- 
ferent to  her  except  that  she  was  a  little  nauseated 
by  his  behaviour,  he  began  to  become  different  to 
all  others,  and  very  faintly  but  authentically  it  was 
whispered  to  her  that  he  and  she  "belonged,"  that 
they  fitted,  entwined  and  interlacing,  into  this  great 
Chinese  puzzle  of  a  world.  Instantly  she  shut  her 
ears  to  the  whisper.    But  she  harl  heard  it. 

He  had  the  decency,  she  allowed,  to  change  the 
subject. 

"No  encore  for  the  intermezzo,"  he  said;  "but 
'Siegfried'  is  being  given  this  day  week,  and  I  have 
got  a  box  for  it.    I  want  you  all  to  come." 

"Well,  that  would  be  a  treat,"  said  Mrs.  Hancock. 
"These  are  the  first  white-heart  cherries  we've  had 
from  the  garden,  Edward.  You  must  take  some! 
'Siegfried!'    That  is  by  Wagner." 

Elizabeth  banished  from  her  mind  caddishness 
and  springy  hair  alike. 

"Oh,  Aunt  Julia!"  she  exclaimed. 

"That  is  capital,  then!"  said  Edward,  knowing 


THE  INTERMEZZO  ,     179 

the  value  of  an  atmosphere  of  certainty.  "We  had 
better  all  sleep  in  town  so  that  we  can  stop  to  the 
end  without  any  sense  of  being  hurried,  which  would 
spoil  it  all,  I'll  see  to  all  that,  and,  of  course,  it's 
my  treat." 

Mrs.  Hancock's  face  changed,  but  brightened 
again  as  she  caught  the  full  flavour  of  the  first 
white-heart. 

"Sleep  in  town!"  she  said.    "I  never Aren't 

the  cherries  good?  I  shall  tell  Ellis  he  was  quite 
right  when  he  wanted  extra  manure.  Delicious! 
But  sleep  in  town,  Edward!  Is  that  necessary? 
Can't  we  come  away  before  the  end,  for  I  quite 
agree  with  you  that  it  is  no  use  stopping  in  your 
seat  grasping  a  fan  in  one  hand  and  your  dress  in 
the  other,  waiting  for  the  curtain  to  go  down.  And 
even  then,  they  all  come  on  and  bow.  Wouldn't 
it  be  better  if  we  all  slipped  out  in  plenty  of  time 
to  catch  the  theatre-train,  as  we  always  do?" 

Elizabeth  sighed. 

"Aunt  Julia,  I  would  sooner  not  go  at  all  than 
come  away  before  the  end,"  she  said.  "It's  the  love 
duet,  you  know,  and  oh!  I've  never  seen  it!" 

Aunt  Julia  looked  mild  reproof. 

"My  dear,  we  mustn't  be  in  a  hurry.  We  must 
think  it  over  and  see  how  we  can  contrive." 

"We  can  contrive  by  stopping  in  town,"  said 
Elizabeth.  "Or  couldn't  you  drive  down  in  your 
car  afterwards?" 

"But,  my  dear,  it  might  be  a  wet  night,  and  if  we 
drove  back  it  would  only  be  reasonable  to  drive 
up.  Shall  we  have  coffee  in  here  now  for  an  ex- 
ception, and  then  we  need  not  interrupt  ourselves? 
Yes,  Lind,  coffee  in  here,  not  in  the  drawing-room, 
but  here.  It  would  only  be  reasonable,  as  I  said,  to 
drive  up,  for  it  would  be  no  use  going  by  train, 
while  Denton  took  up  the  car  empty,  and  if  it  was 


180  ARUNDEL 

a  wet  night  I  should  not  like  him  hanging  about 
all  afternoon  and  evening,  for  his  wife  expects  a 
baby."  This  was  aside  to  Edward,  though  since 
Edith  was  soon  to  be  married  she  did  not  so  much 
minrl  her  hearing. 

"But  his  wife  isn't  going  to  hang  about  all  after- 
noon and  evening,"  said  Elizabeth  swiftly. 

"My  dear,  let  me  talk  it  over  with  Edward!  And 
Denton  would  not  know  how  to  meet  us  at  the  opera 
— we  might  miss  him,  and  then  what  would  hap- 
pen?" 

Edward  laughed. 

"Then,  Mrs.  Hancock,  you  would  have  to  sleep 
in  town  uncomfortably,  without  night  thimis,  in- 
stead of  sleeping  comfortal)ly  according  to  my 
plans." 

"But  I  should  have  to  take  Filson,"  said  Mrs. 
Hancock,  rather  unwi.^^ely,  since  if  you  mean  not 
to  do  a  thing — and  she  harl  not  the  smallest  wish  to 
see  "Siegfried" — it  weakens  the  position  to  argue, 
however  sensibly,  about  it. 

"Of  course  you  would  take  Filson!"  said  Edward. 
"Take  Lind  as  well,  if  you  hke!  I  will  arrange  it 
all." 

"Well,  it  would  be  an  event,  wouldn't  it,  to  see 
the  opera  and  sleep  up  in  town,"  said  Mrs.  Han- 
cock, who,  though  she  did  not  mean  to  go,  a  little 
hankered  after  anything  of  this  sort,  if  it  was  to  be 
had  without  any  expense.  "But  there  would  be  a 
great  deal  to  think  of  and  to  plan.  I  always  forget 
if  you  take  cream.  Edward.  Yes?  A  great  deal 
to  plan,  for  if  one  is  to  go  one  must  look  tidy,  and 
have  a  few  jewels." 

She  formed  a  rapid  mental  picture  of  herself  in 
the  front  of  a  box  with  the  pearls,  and  perhaps  the 
tiara.  It  rather  attracted  her,  but  she  felt  that  if 
she  stayed  in  a  hotel  she  would  not  get  a  wink  of 


THE  INTERMEZZO  181 

sleep  all  night  with  thinking  of  those  treasures.  She 
rejected  the  picture,  but  simultaneously  a  bright 
idea  struck  her. 

"Wednesday  next,  did  you  say?"  she  asked  guile- 
fully. 

"No,  Thursday." 

Mrs.  Hancock  made  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"Well,  if  that  isn't  annoying,"  she  said,  "when 
we  were  arranging  it  so  nicely  and  getting  over 
every  difficulty.  Because  Thursday  is  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin's garden-party,  which  I  haven't  missed  in  all  the 
years  I  have  been  at  Hcathmoor,  and  I  mustn't  miss 
it!  She  would  think  it  so  unkind,  for  she  always 
says  she  depends  on  me.  I  wonder  if  she  could 
possibly  change  her  day.  Listen  to  the  rain.  I 
hope  you  have  brought  your  mackintosh,  Edward. 
No,  I'm  afraid  it's  too  late  to  ask  her.  for  the  invi- 
tations are  already  sent  out.  Well,  that  docs  knock 
our  delightful  plan  on  the  head.  How  battered  the 
garden  will  be,  though  we  want  rain.  And  'Sieg- 
fried,' too;  of  all  operas  that  is  the  one  I  should 
so  like  to  see  again.  But  I  have  an  idea.  Yes,  pray 
light  your  cigarette,  Edward!  What  if  you  took 
these  two  girls  up  to  see  it?  Couldn't  they  be  sup- 
posed to  chaperone  each  other,  and  Edith  so  nearly 
married,  too?  I  don't  know  what  people  would 
think,  though!" 

Mrs.  Hancock  was  the  soul  of  good  nature,  and 
having  so  adroitly  shown  the  impossibility  of  her- 
self partaking  in  this  plan,  thought  nothing  of  the 
disagreeableness  of  spending  an  evening  alone. 

"But  couldn't  you  come  after  the  garden-party, 
mother?"  asked  Edith. 

"My  dear,  I  should  be  a  rag!  Mrs.  Martin  says 
that  she  feels  no  responsibility  if  I  am  there  at  her 
party,  but  I  assure  you  I  do.  I  have  always  said 
it  is  no  use  trying  to  listen  to  music  unless  you  are 


182  ARUNDEL 

fresh.  It  is  an  insult  to  the  music.  But  I  wonder 
if  it  is  very  wrong  of  me  to  suggest  such  a  thing. 
Edith,  darhng,  the  candle-shade.  Well  done!  You 
have  saved  it.  But  if  you  girls  go  up  together  and 
join  Edward  in  town  I  don't  see  who  will  know. 
Well,  that  will  be  a  secret  for  us  all  to  keep!  Shall 
we  all  go  into  the  drawing-room?  Hark  how  the 
rain  is  falling!     We  must  have  some  music." 

"Then  that's  settled?"  asked  Edward. 

"If  these  young  ladies  approve.  But  what  a  lot 
we  have  to  arrange — where  you  are  to  go,  and  where 
they  are  to  meet  you,  and  the  train  they  are  to 
come  back  by  in  the  morning."  She  paused  a  mo- 
ment as  she  took  up  her  patience  pack.    " 

"And  Filson  shall  go  up  with  tliem!"  she  pro- 
claimed. "It  will  make  me  feel  more  comfortable 
if  I  know  Filson  is  there.  What  a  talk  we  have 
had!  I  declare  it  is  half-past  nine  already!  Do 
let  us  have  some  music!  Edith,  dear.  I  think  you 
might  open  the  window  into  the  garden  a  little 
bit.  If  any  of  us  feel  it  damp,  we  can  close  it 
again.  Look,  there  are  two  aces  out  already.  What 
a  good  beginning!" 

Edward  turned  to  Elizabeth. 

"And  you  like  the  'Siegfried'  plan?"  he  asked. 

"But  it's  too  nice  of  you!     I " 

She  stopped. 

"Do  go  on,"  he  said,  speaking  low. 

Suddenly  Elizabeth  saw  that  Edith  was  observing 
them. 

"I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  forgive  you,"  she  said, 
in  a  voice  clearly  audible,  "now  that  you  are  tak- 
ing me  to  'Siegfried.'  " 

And  the  verj^  fact  that  she  spoke  aloud,  so  that 
Edith  could  hear,  falsified,  so  she  felt,  the  truth 
of  her  light  speech.  She  knew  he  would  not  take 
it  quite  lightly,  and  she  allowed  him  to  put  one 


THE  INTERMEZZO  183 

construction  on  it,  so  that  Edith  might  put  another. 

His  eye  quickened  with  the  secret  message  he 
sent  to  her,  and  she  did  not  refuse  it. 

"But  it  wasn't  a  bribe,"  said  he  with  his  lips. 
"I  made  the  plan  before  I  sinned.  So  play  your 
intermezzo." 

A  week  afterwards  Elizabeth  was  walking  up  and 
down  the  long  garden-path  while  the  morning  was 
yet  dewy.  She  had  awoke  early  on  this  day  that 
she  and  Edith  were  going  up  to  town  to  see  the 
opera,  woke  with  a  sense  of  ecstatic  joy  in  life,  of 
intense  and  rapturous  happiness.  For  the  last  week 
she  had  been  living  in  a  storm  of  emotion,  that 
seemed  not  to  come  from  within  her,  but  from  with- 
out, beating  and  buffeting  her,  but  giving  her,  from 
time  to  time,  serene  and  wonderful  hours.  She  had 
wrestled  with  and  worked  over  the  transcript  of 
"Siegfried"  until  she  had  made  the  music  her  own, 
and  she  seemed  to  have  come  into  a  heritage  that 
was  waiting  ready  for  her  to  claim  it.  The  pas- 
sionate excitement  of  the  true  musician,  with  all 
its  flow  of  flooding  revelations,  its  stream  of  infinite 
rewards  was  hers;  she  had  entered  that  kingdom 
which,  to  all  except  those  few  who  can  say  "we 
musicians  know,"  is  but  a  beautiful  cloudland  and 
a  place  of  bewildering  mists.  But  now  for  her  it 
had  cleared;  she  had  come  into  her  own,  and  saw 
steadfastly  what  she  had  before  but  guessed  at,  of 
what  she  had  heard  but  hints  and  seen  images.  Till 
now,  with  all  her  love  of  music,  she  had  been  but  a 
speller  of  the  mere  words  that  made  its  language, 
knowing  the  words  to  be  beautiful  and  feeling  their 
nameless  charm.  But  now  it  was  as  if  the  printed 
page  of  their  poetry  was  open  to  her.  There  was 
meaning  as  well  as  beauty,  coherence  and  romance 


184  ARUNDEL 

in  the  sounds  which  had  hitherto  but  suggested  im- 
ages to  her. 

The  revelation  had  not  come  singly;  the  golden 
gates  had  not  swung  open  of  their  own  accord.  Well, 
she  knew  the  hand  which  for  her  had  thrown  them 
open,  the  wind  that  had  dispersed  the  mists.  She 
was  in  love,  in  love,  as  she  had  once  said  indif- 
ferently and  disappointedly,  with  "a  common  man." 
Beyond  any  shadow  of  doubt  it  was  that  which  had 
opened  out  the  kingdom  of  music  for  her;  thus 
quickened,  her  receptive  nature  had  been  enabltvl  to 
receive.  Hitherto  she  had  been  like  a  deaf  man, 
vivid  in  imagination,  to  whom  the  magic  of  sound 
had  been  described.  Her  perceptions  had  +)een  dor- 
mant; she  had  but  felt  the  light  as  the  bud  of  a 
folded  flower  may  be  imagined  to  feel  it.  Now  she 
received  it  on  expanded  petals. 

About  that  love  itself  she  had  at  present  no 
qualms,  she  admitted  no  recognition  of  its  hopeless- 
ness, she  had  no  perception  of  its  dangers.  She  was 
too  full  of  the  first  wonder  of  its  dawning  to  guess 
or  to  care  what  the  risen  day  might  bring  forth.  The 
fact  that  Edward  wa.s  engaged  to  be  married  to  her 
cousin  was  a  complete  safeguard  against  dangers 
which  she  barely  conjectured,  and  the  very  thought 
of  hope  or  hopelessness  made  no  imprint  on  her 
mind,  for  in  the  presence  of  the  thing  herself  she 
could  not  bring  herself  to  consider  the  possible  is- 
sues of  it.  It  exalted  and  possessed  her;  the  fact 
that  she  loved  filled  her  entire  being,  which  already 
brimmed  with  her  new  perceptions  of  music.  Each 
heightened  the  other,  each  was  infinite,  possessing 
the  whole  of  her.  She  had  no  thought  for  the  mor- 
row, or  for  the  day,  or  for  herself.  The  whole  of 
the  eagerness  of  her  youth  was  enslaved  in  a  per- 
fect freedom.  She  was  blind  and  ecstatic,  and  in 
truth  was  running  heedlessly,  sightlessly  between 


THE  INTERMEZZO  185 

quicksands  and  deep  seas  and  precipices,  uncon- 
scious of  them  all,  and  above  all,  unconscious  of  her- 
self, absorbed  by  love  and  melody,  even  as  the  dew 
on  the  lawn  was  being  absorbed  by  the  sun. 

Above,  the  sky  was  untlecked  by  cloud  and  as  yet 
of  pale  and  liquid  blue;  the  warm  air  had  still  a 
touch  of  night's  coohiess  in  it,  and  the  young  day 
seemed  like  a  rosy  child  awakening  from  sleep.  At 
the  end  of  the  garden  the  tall  elms  stood  motion- 
less, towers  of  midsummer  leaf,  and  the  smell  of 
the  evaporating  dew  that  had  lain  all  night  in  the 
bosom  of  red  roses  and  among  the  thick-blade  grass 
of  the  lawn,  told  her  where  it  had  slept.  It  hung 
thick  on  the  threads  of  the  netted  fruit-trees,  and 
glimmered  on  the  red-brick  wall  that  ran  alongside 
the  shining  gravel  walk.  Already  the  bees  had  be- 
gun their  garncrings,  the  birds  were  a-chuckle  in 
the  bushes,  and  suddenly  the  whole  pervading  sweet- 
ness and  song  of  the  morning  smote  on  Elizabeth's 
heart,  already  full  to  overflowing,  and  demanded  the 
expression  of  her  gratitude.  She  was  compelled  to 
thank  somebody  for  it — not  Ellis,  not  Aunt  Julia, 
not  Edward  even. 

"Somebody,  anyhow!"  she  said  aloud. 


CHAPTER   Mil 

THE  MOUNTAIN-TOP 

Edward,  from  long  living  at  Heathmoor,  had  little 
to  learn  about  comfort,  anrl  the  arrangements  he 
had  made  for  the  two  girls  were  of  a  completeness 
that  Mrs.  Hancock  could  hardly  have  rivalled,  even 
if  she  had  been  concerned  with  plans  for  herself. 
He  had  gone  up  to  town  l)y  the  9.6  a.m.  that  morn- 
ing, and  had  shown  himself  but  briefly  at  his  office, 
devoting  the  rest  of  his  time  to  orders  anrl  inspec- 
tion. He  had  been  to  see  the  rooms  prepared  for 
their  reception  at  the  Savoy,  bedrooms  for  the  two 
girls,  with  a  sitting-room  between,  had  shown  in  a 
practical  way  that  he  recollected  Elizabeth's  ardour 
for  sweet  peas  and  Edith's  respect  for  roses,  hafl  or- 
dered tea  to  be  ready  for  their  arrival,  a  table  to 
be  reserved  in  the  restaurant  for  their  dinner  be- 
tween the  acts,  and  an  entrancing  little  supper  to 
be  served  in  the  sitting-room  wiien  the  opera  was 
over.  Finally,  he  was  waiting  at  the  station  with 
his  motor  for  their  arrival. 

It  was  not  only  the  desire  for  their  comfort  that 
prompted  this  meticulous  super\'ision.  for  the  even- 
ing in  prospect  was  symboHcal  to  him  of  a  parting, 
a  farewell,  and,  with  the  spirit  in  which  all  fare- 
wells should  be  said,  he  wished  to  join  hands  with 
Elizabeth  once  more  festally  and  superbly,  not  with 
lingering  glances  and  secret  signs,  but  to  the  sound 
of  music  and  to  the  sight  of  a  glorious  drama.  He 
had  spent  this  last  week  among  waves  and  billows 

186 


THE  MOUNTAIN-TOP  187 

of  emotions,  and,  though  his  ship  had  not  foundered, 
his  lack  of  experience  as  a  sailor  in  such  seas  had 
completely  upset  him  in  every  other  sense.  But 
to-night,  he  had  told  himself,  he  would  reach  port; 
already  he  had  rounded  the  pier-head,  and  within 
a  few  hours  now  he  would  put  Elizabeth  ashore. 
The  pier  was  decorated  for  her  reception,  flags 
waved  and  bands  played.  He  would  part  with  her 
splendidly,  and  go  back  to  his  l)oat.  where  Edith 
would  await  him  for  their  lifelong  cruise  in  calm  and 
pleasant  waters. 

He  had  made,  so  he  honestly  believed,  the  honest 
decision,  and  though  honesty  is  a  virtue  which  is 
so  much  taken  for  granted  that  it  is  ranked  rather 
among  the  postulates  of  life  than  among  its  ac- 
quirements, honest  decisions  are  not  always  made 
without  struggle  and  difficulty.  He  felt  for  Eliza- 
beth, the  actual  flesh  and  blood  and  spirit  of  her, 
what  he  had  only  hitherto  imagined  in  the  dreams 
which,  a  few  months  before,  he  had  settled  to  have 
done  with.  Bitterly,  and  with  more  poignancy  of 
feeling  than  he  had  thought  himself  capable  of,  he 
regretted  his  precipitancy  in  their  abandonment;  in 
a  few  months  more  he  would  have  seen  them  re- 
alized, he  would  have  had  his  human  chance,  of  an 
attractive  boy  with  a  girl,  to  have  made  them  true. 
But  he  had  not  waited;  he  had  shaken  himself 
awake,  and,  with  full  sense  of  what  he  was  doing, 
had  made  love  to  and  been  accepted  by  the  girl  he 
knew  and  liked  and  admired.  To-day  he  acknowl- 
edged his  responsibihty  and  had  no  intention  of 
shirking  it.  A  week  of  what  was  not  less  than  spirit- 
ual anguish  had  resulted  in  this  decision.  In  one 
direction  he  was  pulled  by  honour,  in  the  other  by 
love.  He  had  a  "previous  engagement,"  which,  he 
had  settled,  took  rank  before  anything  else  what- 
ever.   He  believed,  without  the  smallest  touch  of 


188  ARUNDEL 

complacency,  that  Edith  loved  him,  but  he  believed 
also  (and  again  not  a  grain  of  that  odious  emotion 
entered  into  his  belief)  that  had  he  been  free  Eliza- 
beth would  have  accepted  him.  Since  his  deplorable 
lapse  a  week  ago,  she  had  treated  him  with  a  friend- 
lier intimacy  than  ever;  this,  for  they  had  had  no 
further  word  on  the  subject,  he  interpreted  to  mean 
that  out  of  the  generosity  of  her  nature  she  had 
completely  forgiven  him  and  obliterated  the  occur- 
rence, and  that  her  friendliness  was  meant  to  show 
how  entirely  she  trusted  him  for  the  future.  In  this 
he  was  absolutely  right;  he  was  right  also  in  the 
corollary  he  instinctively  added,  that  she  would  not 
have  adopted  this  attitude  unless  she  was  fond  of 
him.  She  could  quite  correctly  have  kept*  him  at 
arm's  length,  she  could  have  continued  to  manifest 
that  slight  hostility  to  him  which  had  previously 
characterized  her  behaviour.  But  she  had  not;  she 
had  given  him  a  greater  warmth  and  friendliness 
than  ever  before. 

So  far  he  could  let  his  thoughts  bear  him  without 
shame  or  secrecy.  But  there  went  on  beneath  them 
a  tow,  an  undercurrent,  which,  though  he  suppressed 
and  refused  to  regard  it,  was  what  had  caused,  in 
the  main,  the  soul-storm  in  which  he  had  been 
buffeted  all  this  week.  He  believed  there  was  more 
than  friendliness  in  her  regard  for  him,  and  with  the 
terrible  sharpsightedness  of  blind  love  (as  if  one  of 
his  eyes  saw  nothing,  while  the  other  was  gifted 
with  portentous  vision)  he  had  not  missed  the  signs, 
little  signs,  a  look,  a  word,  a  movement,  which  are 
the  feelers  of  love,  waving  tentacles  of  infinite  sen- 
sitiveness, that  threadlike  and  invisible  to  the  ordi- 
nary beholder,  shrivel  and  spring  and  touch  instinc- 
tively without  volition  on  their  owner's  part.  No 
one,  fairly  and  impartially  judging,  could  say  that 
Elizabeth  had  behaved  to  him  except  with  friendly 


THE  MOUNTAIN-TOP  189 

unreserve.  But  to  him  she  seemed  to  reserve  much, 
to  reserve  all. 

In  spite  of  all  this,  Edward,  as  he  waited  on  the 
platform  for  the  arrival  of  their  train,  had  no  doubt 
that  he  was  doing  right  in  following  the  demands 
of  honour.  He  had  killed  his  dreams,  so  to  speak, 
when  he  engaged  himself  to  Edith ;  to-night,  to  the 
sound  of  flutes  and  violins,  he  was  going  to  conduct 
their  funeral,  and  did  not  see  that  in  reality  he  was 
intending  to  bury  them  alive,  and  that  dreams  are 
not  smothered  by  burial;  rather,  like  the  roots  of 
plants,  they  grow  and  flourish  beneath  the  earth, 
sending  up  the  sap  that  feeds  their  blossoms.  He 
did  not  contemplate  the  future  with  dismay;  he 
believed  that  both  he  and  Edith  would  have  a  very 
pleasant,  comfortable  life  together,  according  to 
the  Heathmoor  pattern.  And  with  a  touch  of  cyni- 
cism, which  was  unusual  with  him,  he  added,  as  the 
train  steamed  in,  that  this  was  more  than  could  be 
said  for  many  marriages.  Then,  before  the  train 
stopped,  he  saw  Elizabeth  get  out  and  look  round 
for  him  with  shining,  excited  eyes,  and  his  heart 
beat  quick  at  her  recognition  of  him. 

The  three  met  with  jubilance,  and  drove  straight 
to  the  Savoy,  for  there  was  not  more  than  time  to 
have  tea  and  dress.  The  day,  like  the  last  dozen  of 
its  predecessors,  had  been  dry  and  dusty,  and  the 
roadway  in  front  of  the  hotel  had  been  liberally 
watered.  Stepping  out  of  the  motor,  Edith  slipped 
and  fell  heavily,  her  foot  doubled  under  her. 
Bravely  she  tried  to  smile,  bravely  also  she  tried 
to  get  up.  But  the  smile  faded  in  the  agony  of  her 
twisted  ankle,  and  she  was  helped  into  the  hotel. 

It  seemed  at  first  that  it  might  be  a  wrench  of 
little  consequence,  the  pain  of  which  would  be  as- 
suaged by  ten  minutes'  rest.  But  all  that  ten  min- 
utes did  for  her  was  to  give  her  a  badly  swollen 


190  ARUNDEL 

ankle,  and  show  the  utter  impossibility  of  her  set- 
ting foot  to  the  ground.  Then,  swathed  in  wet 
bandages,  and  lying  on  the  sofa  in  the  sitting-room, 
she  took  a  peremptory  line  with  the  others. 

"You  two  must  go,"  she  said;  "and  if  you  wait 
here  any  longer  you  will  be  late.  If  you  aren't  both 
of  you  rearly  to  start  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  I  shall 
go  myself,  bandage  and  all,  if  I  have  to  hop  there." 

"But  you  can't  spend  the  evening  alone,"  said 
Elizabeth.     "And  we " 

"I  shan't  spend  the  evening  alone,  because  we 
shall  all  have  supper  together.  Dinner,  too,  if  you 
will  be  awfully  kind,  Edward,  and  have  it  up  here 
with  me  instead  of  in  the  restaurant." 

Edward  had  already  yiekled  in  his  heart — yielded 
with  a  secret  exulting  rapture.  The  Fates,  though 
at  Edith's  expense,  were  giving  him  a  splendid  fare- 
well to  Elizabeth.  They  would  be  alone  together 
for  it;  he  did  not  let  his  thoughts  progress  further 
than  that. 

"If  you  insist "  he  began. 

"Am  I  not  insisting?  My  dear,  it  is  a  dreadful 
bore,  but  we  must  make  the  best  of  it.  Be  kind, 
and  order  dinner  here  instead,  and  go  to  dress." 

Elizabeth  was  left  alone  with  her  cousin. 

"But  Aunt  Julia!"  she  said.    "What  will  she  say?" 

"I  have  thought  of  that.  Mother  mustn't  know. 
You  must  coach  me  up  when  you  come  back,  and 
— and  I  shall  have  sprained  my  ankle  when  we 
came  back  to  the  hotel  at  the  end.  Don't  forget! 
Oh,  do  go  and  get  ready,  Elizabeth;  it's  all  settled! 
I  can't  bear  that  Edward  should  be  disappointed 
in  not  seeing  'Siegfried,'  nor,  indeed,  that  you 
should.  It  would  be  perfectly  senseless  that  you 
should  stop  at  home  because  I  can't  go!" 

It  cost  Elizabeth  something  to  argue  against  this. 
She  wanted  passionately  to  see  the  opera,  and  if  a 


THE  MOUNTAIN-TOP  191 

dream-wish,  a  fairy-wish,  for  a  thing  that  was  im- 
possible could  have  been  presented  to  her  that  morn- 
ing, she  would  have  chosen  to  see  the  awakening 
of  Brunnhilde  alone  with  Edward.  His  wild-blurted 
speech  when  he  intruded  upon  her  practising  a  week 
ago  she  had  buried,  so  complete  since  then  had  been 
his  discretion,  and  if  she  thought  of  it  at  all,  she 
thought  of  it  only  as  a  momentary  lapse,  an  un- 
guarded exaggeration.  Since  then  she  had  not  de- 
fended herself  against  him  by  any  coldness  of  man- 
ner, any  unspoken  belittlement  of  him,  and  they 
had  arrived  at  a  franker  and  more  affectionate  inti- 
macy than  ever  before.  She  did  not  inquire  or 
conjecture  what  his  secret  emotional  history  was. 
She  was  safeguarded  enough  from  him  by  his  en- 
gagement to  Edith ;  while  from  herself  her  own  in- 
tegrity of  purpose  seemed  a  sufficient  shield.  Yet 
she  argued  against  Edith's  insistence  on  the  fulfil- 
ment of  the  fairy-wish. 

''But  Aunt  Julia  wouldn't  like  it,"  she  said. 

"I  can't  help  that!"  said  Edith.  "I  want  it  so 
much  that  I  don't  care  what  mother  would  think. 
Besides,  she  won't  think  anything.  She  will  never 
know."    Edith  paused  a  moment  and  flushed. 

"Besides,  dear,"  she  said,  "if  I  asked  you  and  Ed- 
ward, or  even  wanted  you  not  to  go,  what  reason 
could  there  be  for  it?  It  would  appear  so — so  odious 
— as  if I  can't  say  it!    Oh,  go  and  dress!" 

The  unspoken  word  was  clear  enough,  and  it  con- 
tained all  that  Elizabeth  was  conscious  of.  It  would 
have  been  odious  that  cither  of  them  should  harbour 
the  thought  that  Edith  could  not  put  into  words. 
It  was  sufficient. 

The  two  came  back  to  dine  at  the  end  of  the  first 
act,  full  to  the  brim  of  music,  intoxicated  with  the 
beady  ferment  of  sound  and  drama,  and  both  a  little 


192  ARUNDEL 

beside  themselves  with  excitement.  At  present  the 
music,  and  that  alone,  held  them;  in  the  flame  of 
their  common  passion  each  as  yet  paid  little  heed 
to  the  other,  except  as  a  sharer  in  it.  Elizabeth 
hardly  touched  any  food;  she  was  silent  and  bright- 
eyed,  exploring  her  new  kingdom.  But  with  Ed- 
ward, the  return  to  the  hotel,  to  the  common  needs 
of  food  and  drink,  above  all.  to  Edith,  took  him 
poignantly  back  into  the  actual  world  again.  Once 
again,  more  vividly  than  ever  before,  his  choice 
which  he  told  himself  was  already  decided,  was  set 
before  him  as  he  sat  with  Elizabeth  silent  and 
strung-up  on  the  one  side,  with  Edith  intelligently 
questioning  him,  with  a  view  to  subsequent  cate- 
chism of  herself  on  the  other.  Her  questions  seemed 
idiotic  interruptions;  he  could  barely  make  cour- 
teous narrative — "And  then  Mime  told  him  about 
his  youth.  And  then  he  began  to  forge  the  sword. 
Yes,  it  was  Palstecher  who  played  Siegfried — he 
was  in  excellent  voice.  ..." 

He  did  not  revoke  his  choice,  but  he  ceased  to 
think  of  it.  He  wanted  only,  for  the  present,  to 
hasten  the  tardy  progress  of  the  hands  of  the  clock 
to  the  moment  when  it  would  be  time  for  him  to  go 
away  again  alone  with  Elizabeth.  But  the  aspect  of 
this  evening,  as  his  farewell  to  her,  was  ousted  in 
his  mind  by  the  prospect  of  the  next  hour  or  two. 
He  thought  less  of  what  it  symbolized;  more  and 
growingly  more  of  what  it  was.  But  even  as  no 
thunderstorm  bursts  without  the  menace  of  gather- 
ing clouds,  so  the  thickening  intensity  of  his  emo- 
tions warned  him  with  utterly  disregarded  caution, 
that  forces  of  savage  import  were  collecting.  Had 
a  friend  laid  the  facts,  the  possibilities,  the  danger 
before  him,  and  asked  his  opinion  as  to  what  a  man 
should  do  under  such  circumstances,  unhesitatingly 
would  he  have  advised,  without  regard  to  any  other 


THE  MOUNTAIN-TOP  193 

issue,  that  he  should  not  go  back  alone  with  Eliza- 
beth. Let  him  take  a  waiter  from  the  hotel,  a 
stranger  out  of  the  street,  rather  than  trust  him- 
self alone  to  keep  a  steady  head  and  a  firm  foot  in 
those  prccipiced  and  slippery  places.  Had  he  be- 
lieved that  Elizabeth  had  no  touch  of  more  than 
pleasant  friendly  feehngs  towards  him,  he  might 
have  been  justified  in  believing  in  himself.  But — 
and  this  was  the  very  spring  and  foundation  of  his 
excitement,  his  expectancy — he  did  not  so  believe. 
He  fancied,  rightly  or  wrongly,  that  she  had  shown 
signs  of  a  warmer  regard  for  him  than  that.  But 
still,  as  unconvincingly  as  a  parrot-cry,  he  kept  say- 
ing to  himself,  "Eclith  trusts  me,  and  therefore  I 
trust  myself."  He  did  not  even  feel  he  was  doing 
a  dangerous  thing;  he  felt  only  that  he  had  an  irre- 
sistible need  to  be  with  Elizabeth  in  the  isolation 
of  the  darkened  house  when  Brunnhilde  awoke. 

The  performance,  viewed  artistically,  was  mag- 
nificent. From  height  to  height  mounted  the  second 
act,  till  the  sounds  of  the  noonday,  the  murmurs  of 
the  forest,  grew  from  the  scarcely  audible  notes  to 
the  full  triumphant  symphony  of  sunlight  and  liv- 
ing things,  pervading,  all-embracing,  bringing  the 
voice  of  all  nature  to  endorse  heroic  deeds,  and  at 
the  same  time  to  bring  to  the  hero  the  knowledge  of 
his  human  needs.  To  him,  even  as  to  Siegfried,  it 
woke  in  his  heart  the  irresistible  need  of  love,  of  the 
ideal  mate,  of  the  woman  of  his  dreams,  who  sat 
beside  him.  Once  only,  as  the  clear  call  of  the  bird 
rang  through  the  hushed  house,  did  Elizabeth  take 
her  eyes  off  the  stage,  and  turned  them,  dewy  with 
tears  and  bright  with  wonder,  on  him.  She  said 
no  word,  but  unconsciously  moved  her  chair  a  little 
nearer  his  and  laid  her  ungloved  hand  on  his  knee. 

He  had  one  moment's  hesitation — one  moment  in 
which  it  was  in  his  power  to  check  himself.    There 


194  ARUNDEL 

was  just  one  branch  of  a  tree,  so  to  speak,  hanging 
above  the  rapids  down  which  he  was  hurrying,  and 
it  was  just  possible,  with  an  effort,  to  grasp  it.  He 
made  no  such  effort.  DcHberately,  if  anything  in 
this  fervour  of  growing  madness  could  be  called  de- 
liberate, he  let  that  moment  go  by;  deliberately  he 
rejected  the  image  of  P]dith  awaiting  their  return, 
and,  all  aflame,  acquiesced  with  his  will  in  anything 
that  should  happen.  Deliberately  he  cast  the  reins 
on  the  backs  of  his  flying  steeds,  and  not  again  did 
the  sense  that  he  had  any  choice  in  the  matter  come 
to  him.  The  last  atom  of  his  manliness  was  ab- 
sorbed in  his  manhood.  Elizabeth's  hand  lay  on 
his  knee,  the  fingci's  l)cnding  over  it  inwarcte.  Gently 
he  pressed  them  with  his  other  knee,  and  he  felt  her 
response.  She  had  but  sought  that  touch  to  assure 
herself  she  was  in  tune  with  him,  one  with  him  over 
this  miracle  that  she  was  looking  at ;  but  on  the  mo- 
ment she  felt  there  was  more  than  that  both  in 
that  pressure  of  her  hand  and  her  own  response  to 
it.  But  she  was  too  absorbed,  too  rapt  to  care;  noth- 
ing mattered  except  Siegfried,  and  the  fact  that  she 
and  Edward  were  together  and  beating  with  one 
heart's-blood  about  it. 

And  presently  afterwards  Brunnhilde  lay  beneath 
the  pines  in  her  shining  armour,  and  through  the 
flames,  the  vain  obstacle  that  barred  his  approach  to 
her,  came  Siegfried.  Of  no  avail  to  her  was  the 
armour  of  her  maidenhood,  for  while  she  slept  he 
loosened  it,  and  of  no  avail  to  stay  his  approach 
was  the  fierceness  of  the  flames  that  girt  her  resting- 
place.  At  his  kiss — the  kiss  that  sealed  her  his — 
the  strong  throb  of  her  blood  beat  again  in  her  body; 
the  eyes  that  had  so  long  been  shut  in  her  unmo- 
lested sleep  were  unclosed,  and  she  sat  up  and  sa- 
luted the  sun,  and  she  saluted  the  day  and  the  earth 
and  all  the  myriad  sounds  and  sights  and  odours 


THE  MOUNTAIN-TOP  195 

that  told  her  she  was  born  into  life  again.  Sieg- 
fried had  stood  back  in  awe  at  the  wonder  and  holi- 
ness of  her  awakening,  and  she  turned  and  saw  him. 
And  once  more  Elizabeth  turned  to  Edward,  and 
their  eyes  met  in  a  long  glance. 

To  each,  at  that  moment,  to  her  no  less  than  to 
him,  it  was  the  drama  of  their  own  souls  that  was 
unfolding  in  melody  and  love-song  before  them. 
She  needed  to  look  at  him  but  for  that  one  glance 
of  recognition,  for  there  on  the  stage  she  learned, 
as  she  saw  the  immortal  lovers  together,  the  immor- 
tality of  love.  The  whole  air  rang  with  this  su- 
preme expression  of  it.  the  violins  and  the  flutes  and 
that  glorious  voice  of  Brunnhilde  spoke  for  her,  and 
it  was  her  companion,  here  in  the  box  with  her,  who 
bore  the  rapture  higher,  who  completed  it,  made  it 
perfect.  Indeed,  there  was  greeting  in  the  farewell; 
if  he  said  "vale"  to  her  he  sang  "ave"  also.  But  his 
"vale"  was  less  now  than  a  mutter  below  his  breath. 

She  sat  with  her  arms  resting  on  the  front  of  the 
box  till  the  last  triumphant  notes  rang  out,  and 
through  the  applause  that  followed  she  still  sat 
there,  unmoving.  There  was  no  before  or  after  for 
her  then ;  her  consciousness  moved  upon  a  limitless, 
an  infinite  plane.  He  had  left  his  place,  and  when 
she  turned  he  was  standing  close  behind  her.  Again 
their  eyes  met  in  that  long  look,  and  the  question 
that  was  in  his  saw  itself  answered  by  the  smile, 
shy  and  solemn,  that  shone  in  hers.  Then,  still  in 
silence,  they  went  out  into  the  crowd  that  filled  the 
passages. 

The  entrance  porch  was  crowded  with  the  efilux 
of  the  house,  waiting  for  their  carriages  to  arrive, 
and  Elizabeth  saw  the  surging,  glittering  scene  with 
a  strange,  hard  distinctness;  but  it  all  seemed  re- 
mote from  her,  as  if  it  was  enclosed  in  walls  of  crys- 
tal.   The  crowd  was  no  more  to  her  than  a  beehive 


196  ARUNDEL 

of  busy,  moving  little  lives,  altogether  sundered  in 
intelligence  and  interests  from  herself  and  Edward. 
The  whole  world  had  receded  on  to  the  insect-plane; 
it  crawled  anrl  skipped  and  jostled  about  her,  but 
he  and  she  were  infinitely  removed  from  it,  and  it 
aroused  in  her  just  the  vague  wonder  of  a  man  idly 
gazing  at  a  disturbed  ant-hill,  hardly  wondering 
what  all  the  bustle  was  alxnit.  Here  and  there  stood 
members  of  this  throng,  waiting  quietly  in  corners, 
taking  no  part  in  the  movement,  and  it  just  occurred 
to  her  that  in  a  room  in  the  Savoy  Hotel  there  was 
another  such  member  of  tliis  queer,  busy  little  race 
waiting  their  return.  But  even  the  thought  of  Edith 
barely  founrl  footing  in  her  mind;  she  was  but  an- 
other specimen  under  glass. 

The  night  was  quite  fine,  and  in  a  moment  or  two 
they  had  made  their  way  out  of  the  doors  and 
were  walking  down  the  queue  of  carriages  to  find 
their  motor.  He  had  suggested  that  she  should  wait 
while  he  hunted  it  and  brought  it  up,  but  she  pre- 
ferred to  go  out  of  this  crowded  insect-house  to 
look  for  it  with  him.  The  street  was  full  also  of 
the  vague  throng,  that  also  seemed  utterly  unreal, 
utterly  without  significance;  she  would  scarcely  have 
been  surpriseil  if  the  lights  and  the  people  and  the 
houses  and  the  high-swung  moon  had  all  collapsed 
and  melted  away,  leaving  only  a  mountain-top  girt 
with  flames  that  rose  and  fell  with  gusts  of  sparkling 
melody.  She  would  not  be  alone  there;  her  whole 
self,  her  completed  self,  at  least  would  be  there — the 
self  which  she  had  seen  so  often,  had  criticized  and 
belittled,  which,  till  this  evening,  she  had  never 
known  to  be  herself.  Now  she  knew  nothing  else. 
All  the  rest  was  a  mimic  world,  full  of  busy  little 
insects. 

The  motor  was  soon  found,  and  she  stepped  in, 
followed  by  Edward.    She  had  heard  him  give  some 


THE  MOUNTAIN-TOP  197 

directions  to  the  chauffeur  about  driving  down  to 
the  Embankment,  and  going  to  that  entrance  of  the 
hotel,  and  they  slid  out  of  the  queue  and  turned.  So 
intensely  did  she  feel  his  presence  that  it  seemed  to 
bring  him  no  nearer  to  her  when  he  took  her  hand 
in  his,  when  she  heard  him  whisper — 

"Brunnhilde — you  awoke!" 

"Yes,  Siegfried,"  she  answered. 

And  his  arms  were  round  her.  and  for  one  second 
she  clung  close  to  him  as  he  kissed  her. 

Then,  even  while  his  fire  burned  close  to  her,  so 
that  it  mingled  with  her  own  blaze,  and  while  the 
ringing  of  the  music  that  was  mystically  one  with 
it  drowned  all  other  sound,  the  real  world,  the  actual 
world,  which  had  quite  vanished  from  her  conscious- 
ness, stood  round  her  again,  menacing,  reminding, 
appalling.  Her  real  self,  her  integrity,  her  honour 
pointed  at  her  in  amazement,  in  horror,  so  that 
through  their  eyes,  and  not  through  the  eyes  of  her 
passion,  she  saw  herself  and  what  she  was  doing, 
and  what  she  was  permitting,  and  what  she  was 
rapturously  welcoming.  Memory,  loyalty,  honesty 
cried  aloud  at  her.  and  though  it  seemed  that  she 
was  tearing  part  of  herself  away  she  wrenched  her- 
self free. 

"Oh,  what  are  we  doing?"  she  cried.     "We  are 

both  mad!    And  you Oh,  w^hy  did  you  let  me? 

Why  did  you  make  it  possible  for  me?  Let  me  go, 
Edward!" 

He  had  seized  her  again. 

"I  can't!"  he  said.  "You  are  mine,  and  you  know 
it!  It's  you  that  I  have  dreamed  of  all  my  life! 
We  both  dreamed,  and  we  have  awoke  to-night  to 
find  it  is  true!" 

Again,  and  this  time  easily,  she  shook  herself  free 
of  him,  for  that  in  him  which  had  struggled  before, 
which  had  planned  this  evening  as  a  farewell  to  her, 


198  ARUNDEL 

came  to  her  aid.  For  the  moment,  Elizabeth,  far 
stronger  than  he  in  will,  was  wholly  against  him, 
anfl  against  him  he  had  honourable  traitors  in  his 
own  house. 

"We  dreamed  to-night  of  impossible  things,"  she 
said;  "and  I  have  awoke  again." 

She  began  to  treml)le  violently  as  the  struggle  to 
maintain  that  first  flush  of  true  vision  seized  her. 
It  had  come  to  her  with  the  flashing  stroke  of  im- 
pulse; now — and  here  was  the  diflBculty — she  had 
to  keep  hold  of  it. 

"Edward,  you  see  it  as  I  do  really!"  she  said. 
"You  know  we've  been  mad,  mad!  Ah,  thank  God, 
here  we  are!"  ' 

The  motor  had  stopped  by  the  hotel  door,  and 
already  a  porter  was  coming  across  the  pavement  to 
it. 

"No,  we  can't  leave  it  like  this,"  he  said.  "Let's 
drive  t)n  for  a  little.  Just  for  ten  minutes,  Eliza- 
beth." He  was  on  the  near  side  of  the  carriage  and 
tried  to  prevent  her  getting  up. 

"Come  to  your  senses!"  she  said. 

"But  it  is  impossible  to  meet  Edith  like  this!"  he 
said.    "She  will  see " 

He  considered  that  for  a  moment.  What  if  she 
did  see?  Was  not  that  exactly  what  he  desired? 
But  Elizabeth  interrupted  him. 

"She  won't,  because  she  mustn't,"  she  said.  "I 
can  do  my  share,  you  must  do  yours.  Get  out, 
please!" 

Next  moment  he  followed  her  into  the  hotel.  At 
the  door  of  the  sitting-room  she  paused  a  moment, 
feeling  suddenly  tired  and  incapable,  and  she  looked 
appealingly  at  him  as  he  joined  her. 

"Edward,  do  help  me ! "  she  said.    "I  rely  on  you ! " 

The  tremendous  pressure  at  which  she  had  been 
living  all  day  helped  Elizabeth  now,  for  reaction 


THE  MOUXTAIX-TOP  199 

had  not  come  yet,  and  whatever  at  that  moment  she 
had  been  set  to  do  she  would  have  done  it  with  ten 
thousand  horse-power.  She  made  a  rush  of  it  across 
the  room  to  where  Edith  lay,  dropping;  fan,  gloves, 
handkerchief  on  her  way,  and  it  seemed  that  Ed- 
ward's help  would  chiefly  consist  in  listening. 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  she  cried,  "we've  gone  quite  mad, 
both  Edward  and  I!  There  is  nothing  in  the  world 
but  Brunnhilde  and  Siegfried!" 

She  kissed  Edith,  and  went  on  breathlessly,  turn- 
ing the  deep  tumult  of  her  soul  into  the  merest  froth. 

"Siegfried  and  Brunnliildo,  Rrunnhilde  and  Sieg- 
fried! I  felt  I  was  Brunnliilde,  darling,  and  I  was 
rather  surprised  that  Edward  did  not  kiss  me!" 

"I  will  now,  if  you  like!"  remarked  Edward,  tak- 
ing his  cue  unerringly. 

"Yes,  do;  you're  such  a  dear  for  having  taken 
me!  Perhaps  you  had  better  not,  though.  It's  a 
little  late;  you  should  have  done  it  earlier,  and  be- 
sides, Edith  might  not  like  it.  We  must  consider 
Edith  now,  after  thinking  about  our  own  enjoy- 
ment all  the  evening.  How  is  the  ankle?  I  ask  out 
of  politeness,  dear;  I  don't  really  care  in  the  least 
how  your  ankle  is!  I  only  care  for  Siegfried!  Oh, 
do  let's  have  supper  at  once.  I  had  no  dinner  to 
mention,  and  I  am  brutally  hungry.  That  is  the 
effect  of  emotion.  After  daddy  was  charged  out 
pig-sticking,  and  was  nearly  killed,  I  ate  the  largest 
lunch  I  ever  remember.  Ah,  they  are  bringing  it! 
I  shall  never  go  on  hunger-strike  whatever  happens 
tome!  Siegfried!  That  wasn't  quite  in  tune.  Oh, 
Edith!  Now  help  me  to  pull  her  sofa  up  to  the 
table,  Edward.  Then  she  needn't  move  at  all.  And 
how  is  your  ankle?    I  do  care,  really!" 

This  remarkable  series  of  statements  and  ques- 
tions could  hardly  be  called  conversation,  but  it 


200  ARUNDEL 

served  its  purpose  in  starting  social  intercourse 
again, 

Edith  turned  to  Edward. 

"Is  she  mad?"  she  asked.  "And  are  you  mad, 
too?" 

"Yes,  he  has  got  dumb  madness,"  said  Elizabeth. 
"He  hasn't  said  a  word  all  the  evening.  Occasional 
sighs.  Oh,  I  wish  you  had  been  there,  Edith!  Yes, 
certainly  soup!  For  the  third  time  I  inquire  about 
your  ankle!" 

Looking  up,  she  caught  Edward's  eye  for  a  mo- 
ment. He  was  eagerly  gazing  at  her,  as  Siegfried 
gazed  at  Brunnhilde — that  was  in  some  opera  she 
had  once  seen  in  remote  ages  ago,  in  some  dim  land 

of  dreams,  in And  as  she  looked  at  him  the 

stream  of  her  babbling  talk  froze  on  her  lips  and  her 
heart  beat  quick,  and  she  was  back  again  in  the 
darkness  of  the  motor,  and  she  was  saying  to  him, 
"Yes,  Siegfried!"  without  thought  of  anything  but 
the  present  moment,  and  of  her  love.  Then,  with  a 
sense  of  coming  from  some  infinite  distance,  she 
was  back  in  this  sitting-room  again,  conscious  that 
Edith  had  said  something,  and  that  she  had  not 
the  remotest  notion  what  it  was. 

But  Edward  answered. 

"That  is  capital ! "  he  said.  "I  am  glad  it  is  bet- 
ter. Of  course,  you  and  Elizabeth  will  drive  down 
in  the  motor  to-morrow  morning,  so  that  you  needn't 
walk  at  all.  When  will  you  go?  I  must  tell  Joynes 
at  what  time  he  is  to  come  round." 

So  he,  Edward,  also  belonged  to  his  world,  not 
to  the  world  of  the  mountain-top  and  the  ring  of 
flame.  Of  course  he  did;  he  was  going  to  marry 
Edith  on  October  8th,  and  it  was  not  yet  certain  if 
she  herself  would  be  there  or  not.  She  would  be 
leaving  about  then  for  India — it  depended  on 
whether  she  could  get  a  passage  by  the  boat  that 


THE  MOUNTAIN-TOP  201 

left  Marseilles  on  the  15th.  She  felt  like  a  child 
saying  over  to  itself  some  absurd  nonsense  rhyme. 
July,  August,  September,  then  October — "Thirty 
days  hath  October."  It  did  not  sound  right.  Quail 
— yes,  why  not  quail?  So  little  while  ago  she  lay 
on  her  mountain-top,  and  Siegfried  loosed  her 
armour  and  kissed  her. 

Supper  was  over,  and  Edith  was  saying  some- 
thing to  her  about  her  looking  very  tired.  She  was 
suggesting  that  she  should  go  to  bed.  For  herself, 
she  was  going  to  sit  up  a  little  longer  and  have  a 
chat  with  Edward,  for  he  had  to  coach  her  thor- 
oughly in  the  opera,  since  Mrs.  Hancock  was  never 
to  know — at  least,  not  at  present — the  true  history 
of  the  evening. 

Elizabeth  found  herself  laughing  at  that;  it 
seemed  so  unnecessary  to  say  that  Mrs.  Hancock 
must  never  know  the  true  history  of  the  evening. 
Nor  must  Edith  herself  ever  know  the  true  history 
of  the  evening — never,  never.  There  was  no  ques- 
tion of  "not  for  the  present"  about  that.  But  that 
Mrs.  Hancock  should  not  know  the  mere  fact  that 
she  and  Edward  went  to  the  opera  alone  seemed  a 
ludicrous  stratagem,  laughable. 

"What  a  tangled  web  we  are  going  to  weave  all 
about  nothing,"  she  said.  "I  warn  you,  Edith,  I 
shall  be  sure  to  forget,  and  let  it  out!" 

"Oh,  mother  would  be  horrified!"  said  Edith. 
"You  must  take  care!" 

Elizabeth  sat  down  and  took  one  of  Edward's 
cigarettes.  Somehow,  her  revulsion  of  feeling 
against  him  had  altogether  vanished,  and  her  yearn- 
ing for  him  was  steaUng  back  again  like  pain  that 
has  been  temporarily  numbed  and  begins  to  reassert 
itself.  The  dream,  the  impossibility  was  that  on 
October  8th  he  was  going  to  marry  Edith.  It  was 
quite  incredible,  a  mere  piece  of  nonsense  that  she 


202  ARUXDEL 

had  heard  down  at  some  dream-place  called  Heath- 
moor,  where  everybody  was  fast  asleep.  It  was  just 
part  of  the  dreams  of  one  of  them,  of  Aunt  Julia, 
perhaps,  who  certainly  had  no  pains  or  joys,  only 
comforts.  She  herself  had  to  humour  the  dream- 
people,  saying  things  to  those  drowsy  people  (of 
whom  Edith  was  one)  which  really  had  a  meaning, 
but  not  for  them. 

"But  have  we  really  done  anything  so  awful?" 
she  asked.  "Is  it  highly  improper  that  Edward  and 
I  should  go  to  the  opera  together?  There  were 
about  two  thousand  people  there  to  chaperone  us, 
and  a  lot  of  them  were  so  respectable — bald  men 
and  stringy  women!"  She  laughed  again.»  "Did  you 
see  the  one  just  behind  us,  Edward?"  she  said.  "I'm 
sure  you  did!  She  had  been  out  and  got  caught 
in  a  sudden  shower  of  (hamonds.  She  was  peppered 
with  them.  There  were  several  on  her  forehead, 
and  I  think  one  on  her  nose.    Oh,  dear!" 

"And  why  that?"  asked  Edith. 

"Because  I  feel  quite  mad,  and  because  I  am 
afraid  I  shall  recover.  I  suppose  I  shall  go  to  Heath- 
moor  again  to-morrow.    There  will  be  Lind  there, 

and  j\Ir.  Martin,  and,  and Any  other  place 

would  be  as  bad.  It  isn't  that  Hcathmoor  is  more 
impossible  than  London  or  India,  or  any  other  place 
would  be.  Yes,  I'll  remember  that  you  sprained 
your  ankle  after  the  opera — about  now,  in  fact ;  and 
then  I  helped  you  to  bed,  and  then  I  went  to  bed 
myself,  exactly  as  I'm  going  to  do!  Oh,  I'm  so 
tired!  Good-night.  Siegfried  and  Brunnhilde!  Ed- 
ward, you  are  a  darling  for  taking  me!" 

Next  minute  she  was  alone  in  her  bedroom,  and 
there  shot  through  her  like  fire  a  pain,  agonizing 
and  contemptible,  which  she  had  never  known  be- 
fore; the  intolerable  torture  of  jealousy  seized  her, 
and  she  WTithed  in  its  grip.     As  clearly  as  if  the 


THE  MOUNTAIN-TOP  203 

scene  was  before  her  eyes,  she  knew  what  was  hap- 
pening next  door.  She  could  ahnost  hear  Edith  say- 
ing in  that  quiet,  sincere  voice  of  hers,  "Now  we 
shall  have  a  little  time  alone,  Edward.  I  thought 
dear  Elizabeth  was  never  going.  Is  she  not  queer 
and  excited  to-night?"  And  she  would  hold  out 
her  hand  to  him,  and  he  would  sit  on  the  edge  of 
her  sofa  holding  it  in  his,  and  he  would  bend  to 
kiss  her,  not  once,  not  once  only.  They  would  whis- 
per together  the  words  that  were  natural  and  proper 
between  pledged  lovers,  the  words  that  but  an  hour 
ago  he  was  burning  to  say  to  her.  Now,  she  made 
no  doubt,  he  was  glib  with  them  to  Edith.  And 
yet  an  hour  ago  she  had  wrenched  herself  away 
from  his  arm  and  his  kiss  with  horror  and  upheaval 
of  her  nature.  Of  that  horror  there  was  nothing 
left  now  in  the  hour  of  the  first  onslaught  of  jeal- 
ousy. Now  it  was  inconceivable  to  her  that  when 
he  had  offered  her  what  she  longed  for,  the  thought 
of  which,  given  to  another,  made  her  writhe  with 
jealousy,  she  could  have  rejected  it.  She  had  re- 
pulsed him  for  wanting  to  give  her  what  her  whole 
heart  cried  out  for,  and  what  was  hers,  though  he 
had  already  sworn  it  away  to  another.  He  had  not 
met  her,  then;  he  did  not  know  that  she  was  or- 
dained for  him,  even  as  he  for  her.  And  now,  just 
because  he  had  promised  like  a  child,  not  knowing 
what  he  promised,  he  was  giving  all  that  by  right 
was  hers  to  a  girl  whom  he  did  not  love. 

For  a  moment  that  thought,  namely,  that  Edith 
was  nothing  to  him,  assuaged  her;  she  might  as  well 
be  jealous  of  a  dog  that  he  caressed  and  mumbled 
nonsense-love  to,  and  her  rage  turned  against  her- 
self for  having  been  so  insane  as  to  give  him  scru- 
ples instead  of  welcome.  What  if  she  went  back 
now  into  the  room  she  had  so  lately  left,  and  said 
to  Edith,  "Let  him  go;  you  will  have  to  let  him 


204  ARUNDEL 

go.  It  is  not  you  he  cares  for!"  What  if  she  chal- 
lenged him  to  say  which  of  them  he  chose?  She 
knew  well  what  his  answer  would  be. 

Inconceivable  as  was  her  folly  in  rejecting  him, 
equally  inconceivable  was  her  mood  on  that  morn- 
ing— was  it  only  the  morning  of  to-day? — when  she 
walked  about  the  dewy  garden  in  an  ecstasy  of  hap- 
piness at  the  knowledge  of  her  love.  She  had 
thought  it  was  sufficient  to  love;  it  had  made  her 
happy  to  do  that.  But  she  had  understood  nothing 
of  its  nature  then.  It  was  only  when  slie  saw 
Brunnhilde  awake  to  Siegfried's  kiss  that  she  had 
begun  to  understand.  And  the  full  understanding 
hail  come  when  Edward  clasped  and  kissed  her,  and 
she  for  that  moment  harl  clung  to  him,  only  to  push 
him  away,  to  thrust  from  hor  just  that  which  she 
wanted,  which  her  whole  soul  needed.  It  was  but 
a  foolish  fairy-tale  she  had  told  herself  among  the 
roses  and  sweet  peas — a  tale  of  sexless,  borliless  love, 
fit  for  a  Sunday  School  or  a  Bil)le-reading — a  tale 
of  white  blossoms  and  white  robes — a  thing  for  chil- 
dren and  old  maids. 

The  Inquisition  had  another  pair  of  pincers  heat- 
ing for  hor;  they  were  ready  now,  and  glowing. 
What  if  his  moment's  heat  and  flash  of  desire  for 
her  w^as  but  the  fruit  of  excitement,  but  the  froth 
which  the  music  had  stirred  up  in  him?  Certainly 
it  had  been  easy  to  quell  it.  She  had  but  to  tell 
him  to  let  go  of  her  and  he  obeyed;  to  get  out  of 
the  motor,  and  then  he  stood  on  the  pavement.  She 
despised  his  weakness,  for  surely  a  man  who  was  in 
earnest,  who  was  stirred  even  as  she  was  stirred,  not 
by  some  mere  breeze  of  attraction,  or  by  the  excite- 
ment of  a  stimulated  scene,  but  felt  the  heart's  need, 
would  not  have  relinquished  her  as  easily  as  that. 
Yet  it  looked  to  her  in  unreasoning  agony  that  it 
was  so,  for  now  he  was  wnth  Edith,  indulging  in  more 


THE  MOUNTAIN-TOP  205 

madrigals,  no  doubt.  Yet,  when  she  thought  as 
collectedly  as  might  be  for  a  second  she  had  the 
cold  water  ready  for  those  pincers.  She  knew  really 
that  what  she  now  called  his  weakness  was  in  reality 
of  the  same  stuiBf  as  her  own  strength;  that  which 
made  her  strong — that  grotesque  angular  old  image 
called  "Honour" — was  one  with  the  reason  of  his 
yielding  to  her.  She  was  left  alone  v/ith  that  now; 
next  door  a  precisely  similar  idol  presided  over  the 
two  whom  she  raged  to  think  upon. 

Yet,  if  he  had  not  so  easily  succumbed  to  her 
strength,  or  if,  to  put  it  more  truthfully,  if  they 
had  not  both  been  held  in  by  the  force  that  re- 
strained the  hot  impulse,  that  governed,  that  laid 
cool  hands  on  the  reins  he  had  flung  away,  would 
she,  so  she  asked  herself  now,  have  continued  to 
persist,  have  ranged  her  will  and  purpose  against 
his,  till  there  was  no  more  courage  left  in  her?  She 
did  not  know;  swift  and  decisive  though  the  strug- 
gle had  been,  it  seemed  to  have  taken  all  the  force 
of  which  she  was  capable  to  make  it  at  all. 

For  the  moment  there  was  remission  for  her  at 
the  hands  of  her  jealousy,  and  she  walked  across  to 
the  window  and  stood  behind  the  curtain  looking 
out  on  to  the  moon-emblazoned  river.  The  flood- 
tide  was  at  its  height,  and  the  reflection  of  the  lights 
from  the  farther  bank  lay  on  the  lake-like  surface 
in  unwavering  lines.  Stars  and  moon  burning  in 
the  blaze  of  an  everlasting  day,  and  something  in 
the  calm  of  the  night,  in  the  eternal  progress  of  those 
shining  worlds,  gave  her  a  momentary  tranquillity, 
so  that  she  was  able  to  ask  herself  this  question,  on 
the  answer  to  which  all  depended,  with  a  mind  aloof 
from  herself.  How  long  her  will  could  have  held 
out  against  her  love  she  did  not  know,  but  she  knew 
she  would  not  have  chosen  to  yield. 

And  at  that  moment  she  had  won,  had  she  but 


206  ARUNDEL 

known  it,  the  first  real  battle  of  her  life.  For  that 
moment  she  stood  with  her  banner  waving  round 
her.  The  next  she  was  back  in  the  thick  of  the 
melee  again,  without  tactics,  without  any  sense  of 
there  being  any  one  in  connnand  of  the  army  she 
fought  with,  or  even  of  herself  being  but  a  unit  in 
an  immense  warfare.  She  felt  utterly  alone,  strug- 
gling, yet  hardly  knowing  why,  knowing  only  that 
the  odds  against  her  seemed  desperate. 


CHAPTER   IX 

Edward's  absence 

The  injury  to  Edith's  ankle  which,  according  to  the 
authorized  version,  had  happened  on  their  return 
from  the  opera  to  the  hotel,  gave  more  trouble  than 
she  had  expected,  and  ten  days  after  its  infliction 
she  was  still  a  limping  pedestrian.  This  morning 
she  was  whiling  away  the  half-hour  that  would 
elapse  before  the  motor  took  her  out  with  her 
mother,  in  a  long  chair  in  the  strip  of  shade  just 
outside  the  drawing-room  window,  with  an  unread 
paper  on  her  knees,  hearing  rather  than  listening 
to  Elizabeth's  stormy  performance  on  the  piano. 
The  agitation  that  sounded  there  was  not  confined 
to  those  musical  excursions,  for  ever  since  that  night 
at  the  opera  there  had  been  something  about  Eliza- 
beth that  her  cousin  would  have  summed  up  in  the 
word  ''queer."  Had  not  other  circumstances  and 
other  people  been  "queer,"  too,  she  would  probably 
have  been  content  to  define  without  analysis.  As  it 
was,  she  had  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  during  this 
last  week  in  attempting  to  penetrate  this  queernesa 
of  Elizabeth,  and  seeing  if  it  fitted  in  with  other 
oddities.  And  she  had  come  to  the  uncomfortable 
conclusion  that  they  were  not  unconnected. 

Very  small  phenomena — more  remembered  now 
than  noticed  at  the  time — had  announced,  like  horns 
faintly  blowing,  the  train  of  circumstances  that  were 
growing  peaked,  like  a  volcano-cone,  and  promised 
eruption.    Such,  for  instance,  had  been  her  sense 

207 


208  ARUNDEL 

that  something  had  happened  on  the  afternoon  when 
Edward  had  interrupted  Elizabeth's  practising.  It 
was  barely  noticeable  at  the  time,  but  it  tended  to 
confirm  her  view  of  subsequent  happenings,  which 
began  to  take  shape  and  subRta,ncc  in  her  mind  on 
the  evening  of  the  opera.  That  nit^ht  Elizabeth  had 
been  rather  oddly  excited,  and  tliough  an  excited 
Elizabeth  was  a  daily,  if  not  an  hourly,  phenomenon, 
her  excitement  then  had  been  of  peculiar  texture. 
Though  not  given  to  similes,  it  had  represented  it- 
self, quaintly  enough,  to  Edith's  mind,  under  the 
image  of  Elizalieth  holding  some  young  living  thing 
— a  puppy  or  a  kitten — down  in  a  bucket  of  water  to 
drown  it,  while  to  draw  off  attention  from  her  em- 
ployment she  had  been  wildly  and  incoherently  talk- 
ative. At  the  time  it  had  struck  Edith  that  her  ex- 
citement wa.s  not  merely  a  reaction  from  tlie  climax 
of  music  and  drama;  she  was  certainly  attempting 
to  drown  something,  and  while  her  tongue  was  volu- 
ble with  vivid  talk  her  fingers  were  holding  some- 
thing down,  shrinking  but  resolute. 

This  was  not  wholly  an  afi'air  of  memory  and  in- 
terpretation;  the  impression  had  been  conveyed  to 
Edith  at  the  time,  and  now.  taken  in  conjunction 
with  other  events  and  conclusions,  it  assumed  the 
importance  of  a  cipher,  when  a  numeral  is  prefixed 
to  it.  And  the  numeral,  without  doubt,  was  Ed- 
ward. For  on  the  night  of  the  opera,  after  Eliza- 
beth had  gone  to  her  bedroom,  Edward  had  lingered 
for  a  talk,  and  he  had  been  as  inanimate  as  Eliza- 
beth had  been  vivid,  as  grey  as  she  had  been  rain- 
bowed.  He  was  absent-minded,  preoccupied,  inac- 
cessible; he  had  nothing  enthusiastic  or  enraptured 
to  tell  her  about  the  opera  which  had  so  stirred  his 
companion,  and  yet  when  questioned  he  said  that 
so  far  from  being  disappointed  with  it  it  had  been 
magnificent.    To  her  comment  that  Elizabeth  had 


EDWARD'S  ABSENCE  209 

seemed  to  enjoy  it,  he  had  for  reply,  that  "he  be- 
lieved she  did."  Half  a  dozen  times  he  had  tried 
to  rouse  himself,  and  for  a  few  minutes  had  pulled 
himself  up  by  muscular  effort,  as  it  were,  to  a  nor- 
mal level,  but  as  often  as  he  thus  exerted  himself 
he  fell  back  again  below  the  surface,  below  waves 
antl  waters.  And  once  more  her  own  image  of  Eliza- 
beth trying  to  drown  something  occurred  to  her. 
Then,  again,  Edward  would  ask  after  her  injured 
ankle,  and'  not  listening  to  her  reply,  repeat  his  in- 
quiries; he  suggested  a  train  for  their  return  next 
morning  to  Heathmoor,  having  himself  arranged 
half  an  hour  before  they  were  to  drive  down  in  his 
car.  Finally,  Edith,  half-amused,  half-piqued  with 
him,  had  told  him  that  whether  he  knew  it  or  not, 
he  was  tired,  and  had  better  follow  Elizabeth's  ex- 
ample and  go  to  bed.  For  a  few  minutes  after  that 
he  had  roused  himself  to  the  performance  of  the 
little  loverlike  speeches,  the  touches  and  hints  of 
their  relationship.  It  had  never  been  the  habit  of 
either  to  be  demonstrative,  but  to-night  these  atten- 
tions seemed  to  her  purely  mechanical  things, 
wooden  and  creaking,  not  the  result  of  the  fatigue 
with  which  she  had  saddled  him. 

Since  that  night,  instead  of  seeing  him,  as  she  was 
accustomed  to  do,  every  evening  on  his  return  from 
town,  she  had  not  once  set  eyes  on  him.  He  had 
telephoned  next  day  that  stress  of  business  kept  him 
that  night  in  London  (a  thing  that  occasionally 
happened)  but  the  same  stress  of  business,  it  ap- 
peared, had  prevented  his  coming  down  to  his  house 
next  door  ever  since.  A  Sunday  had  intervened,  and 
he  had  merel}^  told  her  that  he  was  engaged  to  pay 
a  week-end  visit,  and  this  morning  a  further  note 
had  come,  saying  that  a  similar  engagement  pre- 
vented his  coming  down  on  the  Saturday  that  was 
at  hand.    It  was  true  that  he  had  written  to  her 


210  ARUNDEL 

with  frequent  regularity,  for  every  morning  pre- 
sented her  with  a  note  from  him,  but  those  com- 
munications were  of  the  most  unsatisfactory  descrip- 
tion, with  perfunctory  regrets  for  his  continued  ab- 
sence, and  perfunctory  assurances  of  the  impera- 
tiveness of  the  employments  which  detained  him. 
Once  he  had  said  that  the  hot  weather  had  pulled 
him  down  from  the  usual  serenity  of  his  health,  and 
visited  him  with  headaches,  but  her  inquiry  and 
sympathy  on  this  point  had  brought  forth  no  fur- 
ther allusion  to  it.  He  was  still  staying  at  the  Savoy 
Hotel,  for  while  work  was  so  heavy  it  was  not  worth 
while  getting  to  Hcathmoor  late  in  the  evening,  only 
to  leave  by  the  early  train  in  the  morning.  This,  he 
said,  would  only  add  further  fatigue  to  a  fatiguing 
day.  And  he  had  clearly  written  in,  between  lines, 
"I  should  not  set  eyes  on  you,  even.  How  is  your 
ankle?" 

These  not€s,  as  has  been  mentioned,  arrived  with 
regularity,  but  they  were  not  the  only  communica- 
tions received  at  Arundel  from  him.  Twice,  to 
Edith's  knowledge,  Elizabeth  had  heard  from  him, 
and,  allowing  herself  now  to  suspect  everything  and 
everybody,  Edith  imagined  that  her  cousin  had 
heard  oftener  than  that.  For  the  early  post  was 
delivered  at  the  house  an  hour  before  breakfast- 
time,  and  was  sent  up  to  the  rooms  of  its  various 
destinations.  But  a  week  ago  now,  Edith,  by  chance, 
had  come  down  before  its  arrival,  and  when  it  came 
had  sorted  it  out  herself  and  seen  the  neat  unmis- 
takable handwriting;  and  to-day,  in  obedience  to  a 
definite  jealousy  and  suspicion,  she  had  come  down 
early  again,  and  again  found  that  Edward  had  writ- 
ten to  her  cousin.  This  time,  hating  herself  for  it, 
yet  unable  to  resist,  she  had  fingered  the  envelope 
and  come  to  the  conclusion  that  there  were  certainly 


EDWARD'S  ABSENCE  211 

two  sheets  in  it.  To  neither  of  these  letters  had 
Elizabeth  made  the  slightest  allusion. 

There  remained  to  colour,  as  it  were,  all  these 
various  outlined  features  with  a  general  "wash"  the 
aspect  of  Elizabeth,  the  impression  of  her.  Of  Ed- 
ward she  could  only  judge  by  the  tenor  of  his  notes, 
and  in  them  he  revealed  nothing  except  reticence. 
But  Elizabeth  was  here,  her  moods,  her  appear- 
ance, her  voice,  all  gave  information  about  her ;  and 
if  Edward's  notes  suggested  reticence,  Elizabeth 
suggested  repression.  It  required  very  little  knowl- 
edge of  human  nature  (luckily  for  Edith,  since  her 
acquirements  in  that  supreme  branch  of  knowledge 
were  of  the  most  elementary  description )  to  see  that 
her  mind  was  beset  by  some  monstrous  incubus. 
Often  she  sat  silent  and  absorbed,  and  then,  with  an 
effort,  would  break  into  a  torrent  of  broken-winged 
high  spirits  and  gaiety,  which  presented  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  fair  forgery  of  her  normal  apprecia- 
tive pleasure  in  life.  Then,  with  equal  suddenness, 
she  would  seem  incapable  of  keeping  up  this  spuri- 
ous pageant,  and  in  the  middle  of  some  voluble  ex- 
travagance she  would  sink  back  again  into  a  nervous 
silence.  More  than  once  this  change  had  come  on 
the  ringing  of  the  front  door  bell,  which,  sounding 
in  the  kitchen  passage,  was  clearly  audible  from  the 
garden.  Not  once  or  twice  only  in  this  last  week 
had  Edith  seen  her  drop  suddenly  into  a  restless 
silence  when  this  innocent  harbinger  was  heard, 
while  with  eager  and  shrinking  anxiety  she  watched 
beneath  dropped  eyelids  for  the  appearance  of  a 
visitor.  Sometimes  some  such  would  appear  and 
Elizabeth  would  soon  make  an  excuse  for  a  visit  to 
the  house  or  a  conjecture  as  to  the  arrival  of  the 
post. 

Now  up  till  the  moment  of  her  faUing  in  love 
with  Edward,  Edith's  potentialities  for  jealousy  had 


212  ARUXDEL 

remained  practically  dormant  and  sealed  up  in  her 
nature,  the  reason  presumably  being  that  she  had 
not  cared  enough  about  anybody  to  be  able  to  wake 
that  green-eyed  monster,  three-quarters  fiend  and 
one-quarter  angel,  from  its  hibernation.  For  though 
jealousy  is  a  passion  which  at  first  sight  seems 
wholly  ugly  and  contemptible,  it  must  not  be  for- 
gotten that  its  very  existence  postulates  the  pre- 
existence  among  its  ancestors  of  love.  Love,  we 
may  say,  represents  one  of  its  grandparents;  it  is 
always  of  that  noble  descent.  Or,  if  it  be  argued 
that  a  passion  so  utterly  mean  is  wholly  lacking  in 
the  open-hearted  trust  which  so  emphatically  is  in 
the  essence  of  love,  it  must  at  least  be  concerled  that 
love  is  in  the  hand  that  turns  the  key  or  breaks  the 
seal  of  the  cell  where  jealousy  lies  confined,  then 
flings  open  the  door  to  let  the  wild  and  secret  pris- 
oner escape  and  roam.  The  love  that  is  lofty,  that 
seeks  not  its  own.  will  no  doubt  wring  its  hands  in 
despair  to  see  what  sort  of  intruder  it  has  set  loose, 
will  use  its  best  efforts,  shocked  at  the  appearance 
of  this  monster,  to  confine  it  again  ;  but  without  love 
never  has  jealousy  been  allowed  to  get  free,  to  root 
about  among  the  springing  crops  of  the  heart,  de- 
vouring, trampling,  spoiling.  And  in  Edith's  case 
her  love  had  from  the  first  come  mixed  with  the 
sense  and  pride  of  possession ;  its  first  act,  while  yet 
new-born,  was  to  set  guards  round  its  treasure,  sen- 
tinels to  watch.  To-day  they  were  wide-eyed  and 
alert. 

From  inside  the  drawing-room  came  the  sound  of 
the  galloping  squadrons  of  chord  and  scale  and  har- 
mony; Brahms  was  working  up  to  one  of  his  great 
intellectual  crises  with  an  attack  thought  out,  bril- 
liantly manoeuvred,  before  delivering  the  irresistible 
assault.  Then  quite  suddenly  the  music  entirely 
ceased  in  the  middle  of  a  bar,  and  there  was  dead 


EDWARD'S  ABSENCE  213 

silence.  For  half  a  second  Edith  conjectured  the 
turning  of  a  page,  but  the  half  second  grew  and 
grew,  and  it  was  clear  that  it  was  no  such  mo- 
mentary halt  as  this  that  had  been  called.  Simply, 
Elizabeth  had  finished,  had  broken  off  in  the  middle. 

An  idea,  an  explanation  leaped  into  Edith's  mind, 
suggested  to  her  by  one  of  her  green-eyed  senti- 
nels, and  in  her  present  mental  condition,  sapped 
as  it  was  by  the  secret  indulgence  of  a  week's  jeal- 
ousy, she  was  unable  to  resist  testing  the  accuracy 
of  her  conjecture  as  she  was  to  resist  the  demands 
of  her  lungs  for  air.  But  in  pursuance  of  her  ob- 
ject she  waited  without  moving  until  the  pulse  in 
her  clenched  hand  had  throbbed  a  hundred  beats. 
Then  very  quietly  she  got  out  of  her  chair  and  went 
softly  in  through  the  open  garden  door  into  the 
drawing-room. 

Elizabeth  was  sitting  with  her  back  towards  her 
at  the  writing-table  that  stood  at  the  far  end  of  the 
room.  As  Edith  entered  the  swift  passage  of  her 
pen  ceased,  and  she  sat  with  her  head  resting  on 
one  hand,  thinking  intently.  Then,  taking  it  up 
again,  she  began  writing  once  more.  Edith  had  seen 
enough  for  her  present  purpose,  and  she  took  an 
audible  step  forward.  Instantly  Elizabeth  turned 
round,  and  as  she  turned  she  shut  the  blotting-book 
on  her  unfinished  letter. 

"Oh,  how  you  startled  me!"  she  said.  "I  thought 
somehow  you  had  gone  out  driving  with  Aunt 
Julia." 

Edith  sat  down. 

"No,  the  car  has  not  come  round  yet,"  she  said. 
"It  will  be  here  in  a  minute.  We  shall  pass  the 
post-office ;  I  will  post  your  letter  for  you." 

Elizabeth  turned  farther  round  in  her  chair,  but 
her  hand  still  lay  on  the  closed  blotting-book. 


214  ARUXDEL 

"Oh,  I  was  only  just  beginning  a  scribble  to  fa- 
ther!" she  said.    "It  will  not  be  ready." 

Edith  considered  the  days  of  the  week;  but  she 
felt  that  she  knew  it  was  not  to  her  father  that 
Elizabeth  was  writing. 

"It  will  just  catch  the  mail  if  I  post  it  for  you," 
she  said.  "Otherwise  it  will  have  to  wait  another 
week." 

"Then  it  must  wait  another  week,"  said  Eliza- 
beth. 

Jealous  people  never  themselves  feel  the  wanton- 
ness and  cruelty  of  their  unconfirmed  suspicions; 
they  only  know  that  these  are  not  suspicions  at  all, 
but  certainties. 

"I  noticed  that  you  had  a  letter  from  Edward 
again  this  morning,"  she  said. 

Elizabeth  slightly  shifted  the  blotting-book,  and 
Edith  registered  the  fact — for  so  it  seemed  to  her — 
that  the  letter  was  lying  there. 

"Again?"  said  Elizabeth. 

Edith  felt  that  she  was  not  being  wise.  But  jeal- 
ousy is  of  all  passions  the  most  pig-headed;  it  only 
says  "I  must  know.  I  must  know!" 

"Yes,  you  heard  from  him  a  week  ago." 

Elizabeth,  who  had  been  startled  by  her  cousin's 
entry,  was  cool  enough  now.  She  perfectly  under- 
stood what  prompted  this  catechism.  But  little  did 
Edith  know  how  gallant  a  battle  was  being  fought 
on  her  behalf  by  the  girl  whom  she  now  so  utterly 
distrusted  and  suspected;  little  also  did  she  know 
that  which  Elizabeth  was  using  her  w^hole  strength 
to  conceal. 

Elizabeth  laughed;  she  meant  to  laugh,  anyhow; 
the  effort  might  pass  for  a  laugh. 

"Yes,  I  believe  I  did,"  she  said.  "And  as  for  that, 
I  rather  fancy  you  have  been  hearing  from  him 
every  day." 


EDWARD'S  ABSENCE  215 

"Naturally.  Did  he  say  in  his  letter  to  you  when 
he  expected  to  come  down  here  again?  He  has  not 
told  me  that." 

"No,  he  did  not  mention  it,  as  far  as  I  remember. 
He  appears  to  be  very  busy." 

"He  appears  to  have  time  to  write  very  long  let- 
ters to  you!"  said  Edith,  hatred  and  resentment 
flashing  out.  Till  that  moment  she  had  not  known 
that  she  hated  her  cousin. 

Elizabeth  opened  her  blotting-book,  took  out  of  it 
her  unfinished  letter,  and  from  under  it  Edward's. 
She  slipped  them  into  a  piece  of  music  that  lay 
there,  and,  holding  it  in  her  hand,  stood  up  and  left 
the  table. 

"What  do  you  know  about  the  length  of  his  let- 
ter to  me?"  she  asked. 

Edith  saw  her  mistake.  The  instinct  that  said 
"I  must  know,  I  must  know!"  had  been  wonderfully 
ill-inspired  in  its  notions  of  how  to  find  out. 

"I  happened  to  take  it  up ;  it  was  a  thick  letter," 
she  said,  hopelessly  trying  to  efi'ace  her  steps,  giv- 
ing as  reason  an  irrational  excuse. 

"I  don't  know  the  thickness  of  Edward's  letter 
to  you,"  said  Elizabeth.  "It  is  no  concern  of  mine 
how  many  sheets  he  writes  you." 

She  paused  a  moment. 

"You  speak  as  if  you  resent  Edward's  writing  to 
me  at  all,"  she  added. 

Edith  saw  that  she  could  get  at  nothing  in  this 
way.  Swiftly  and  unexpectedly  she  shifted  her  at- 
tack, answering  Elizabeth's  comment  by  another 
question. 

"Why  does  he  keep  away  from  Heathmoor?"  she 
said. 

Elizabeth  had  not  been  expecting  anything  of 
this  kind.    She  winced  as  from  a  blow,  and  had  to 


216  ARUNDEL 

wait  a  moment  before  she  could  trust  her  voice  to 
be  steady. 

"Has  he  not  told  you?"  she  asked.  "I  thought  it 
was  work  during  the  week,  and  a  couple  of  visits 
for  the  Sundays  that  he  is  away." 

Two  instincts  were  dominant  in  Edith — love  and 
jealousy,  inextricably  intertwined,  disputing  for 
mastership.  Love  and  its  yearning  anxiety — a  cord, 
so  to  speak,  of  which  jealousy  held  the  other  end, 
pulled  her  here. 

"But  it's  so  strange  of  him,"  she  said;  "and  his 
letters  are  strange!  I  don't  understand  it  at  all. 
Can't  you  help  me  to  understand,  Elizabeth?  You 
are  so  much  cleverer  than  I!  Has  it  anything  to  do 
with  music?" 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  sudden  and  piteous 
sincerity  of  her  tone.  Half  a  minute  ago  she  had 
been  all  anger,  all  hate,  all  suspicion.  Now  she  ap- 
pealed to  her  whom  she  had  hated  and  suspected. 

Elizabeth  felt  her  eyes  grow  suddenly  dim. 

"If  I  were  you,  I  wouldn't  worry,  Edith !"  she  said. 
"I  should  be  quiet,  not  let  my  thoughts  run  away 
with  me,  and — and  trust  that  everj^thing  is  all 
right." 

"Then  there  is  something  wrong?"  asked  Edith. 

"I  didn't  say  that.  I  didn't  mean  to  imply  it. 
Take  it  that  he  is  busy,  that  he  has  visits  he  feels  he 
must  pay.  Why  should  he  conceal  things  from  you? 
Why  should  you  assume  there  is  anything  to  con- 
ceal?" 

Edith  instinctively  shrank  from  making  the  di- 
rect accusation  which  all  this  week  her  jealousy 
had  been  dinning  in  her  ears  so  that  her  head  rang 
with  it.  Elizabeth  would  simply  deny  it,  but  it 
would  put  her  on  her  guard  (here  jealousy  was  busy 
to  prompt)  and  the  chance  of  finding  out  more 
would  be  lost.    Her  emotion  had  narrowed  and  en- 


EDWARD'S  ABSENCE  217 

feebled  the  scope  and  power  of  thought;  she  could 
make  no  plan. 

"I  am  very  unhappy,"  she  said  simply. 

Elizabeth  took  a  step  towards  her. 

"I  am  sorry  for  that,  dear,"  she  said.  "But — but 
don't  make  yourself  unhappy.  Don't  contribute  to 
it." 

The  expected  summons  came,  and  even  as  the 
wheels  of  the  motor  crunched  the  gravel  Lind 
sounded  the  gong  and  Mrs.  Hancock  entered.  The 
household  books  had  proved  at  least  a  sovereign  less 
than  she  had  expected,  also  the  coral  necklace  with 
the  pearl  clasp  had  come  back  from  the  jeweller's 
in  its  new  case,  with  Edith's  initials  on  it.  She  felt 
that  these  two  delightful  phenomena  were  somehow 
dependent  on  each  other;  the  money  she  had  spent 
on  the  new  case  seemed  to  be  returned  to  her  by  the 
modesty  of  the  household  books. 

"Dearest,  are  you  ready?"  she  asked  Edith.  "Let 
us  start  at  once  and  we  can  go  round  by  the  old 
mill.  And  what  dehcious  tunes  you  have  been  play- 
ing, Elizabeth,  my  dear.  Edward  will  think  you 
have  got  on  when  he  hears  you  again.  Why,  you 
hardly  limp  at  all  this  morning,  Edith !  I  knew  that 
the  lotion  I  gave  you  last  night  would  make  you 
better." 

IMrs.  Hancock  settled  herself  among  her  cushions. 
She  had  lately  got  a  new  one,  rather  stiff  and  resist- 
ing, which  admirably  supported  the  small  of  her 
back.  The  footstool  from  the  stores  continued  to 
give  complete  satisfaction. 

"And  such  a  lovely  day!"  she  said.  "Just  not  too 
hot!  Oh,  what  a  jolt,  and  yet  I  hardly  felt  it  at  all 
with  my  new  cushion.  I  see  there  has  been  a  dread- 
ful accident  in  a  Welsh  colliery.  So  sad  for  the  poor 
widows  and  families!  What  a  lot  of  misery  there 
is  in  the  world.    But,  as  Mr.  Martin  says,  we  should 


218  ARUNDEL 

not  dwell  on  it  too  much,  for  fear  of  dimming  our 
sense  of  thankfulness  for  all  our  blessings.  And  Ed- 
ward? Have  you  heard  from  Edward?  When  is 
that  naughty  boy  coming  back?  You  will  have  to 
scold  him,  dear,  for  neglecting  you  while  he  absorbs 
himself  in  making  money.  There!  Did  you  not 
hear  the  cuckoo  just  say  'Cuck'? — there  is  a  rhyme 
about  it.  Yes,  Echvard  is  really  quite  greedy,  stop- 
ping up  in  London  like  this  to  make  money.  Yet, 
after  all,  dear,  you  must  consider  that  he  is  work- 
ing for  you,  making  himself  rich  for  you." 

Efhth  turned  round  sharply,  so  sharply,  in  fact, 
that  her  mother  was  startled,  for  sudden  movements 
were  not  characteristic  of  her. 

"Do  you  really  think  that  is  all,  mother?"  she 
said.  "And  if  so,  how  about  tlie  Sundays?  He  was 
not  here  last  Sunday,  and  he  is  not  coming  down 
for  next  Sunday." 

"But  what  do  you  mean,  Edith?"  asked  Mrs. 
Hancock.  "You  have  not  had  a  quarrel  or  any- 
thing?" 

What  Edith  could  not  say  to  her  cousin  was  pos- 
sible now. 

"No,  we  have  not  quarrelled,"  she  said.  "But 
what  if  he  doesn't  even  care  to  quarrel?  What  if 
he  has  ceased  to  care  at  all?  Or" — it  came  out  with 
difficulty — "or  if  he  cares  for  somebody  else?" 

Mrs.  Hancock  was  sufficiently  disturbed  not  to 
call  attention  to  another  cuckoo,  that,  in  defiance 
of  the  rhyme,  was  still  gifted  with  complete  speech. 

"But  what  a  wild  and  dreadful  idea!"  she  said. 
"Have  you  any  reason  for  supposing  so?" 

So  far  could  Edith  go.  But  she  could  not  tell  her 
mother  that  she  had  definite  suspicions  that  affini- 
ties, attractions  had  begun  to  exert  their  force  be- 
tween her  lover  and  Elizabeth.  The  chief  feeling 
that  kept  her  silent   was  pride.     The   confession 


EDWARD'S  ABSENCE  219 

would  be  humiliating;  she  would  be  acknowledging 
herself  as  having  failed  to  feed  the  affection  she  had 
inspired.  Her  love  for  him,  genuine  though  it  was, 
and  the  best  of  which  her  nature  was  capable,  was 
not  large  enough  to  make  her  drown  herself.  She 
still  kept  her  own  head  above  water,  not  guessing 
that  it  is  through  the  drowning,  the  asphyxiation  of 
self,  that  the  full  life  of  love  is  born.  A  second 
cause  of  reticence,  less  dominant,  was  her  belief  in 
Edward's  loyalty.  It  was  overlaid  with  suspicion, 
which,  ivy-like,  covered  it,  and  thrust  pushing  ten- 
drils between  the  stones  of  its  solidity,  but  beneath 
all  this  rank  growth  it  was  still  there.  She  did  not 
yet  quite  soberly  believe  all  that  she  suspected.  She 
sat  silent  a  moment,  to  her  mother's  huge  discom- 
fort, weighing  her  pride  in  the  balance  and  confusing 
it  with  her  loyalty. 

"If  it  were  not  for  his  absence  I  should  not  have 
any  reason,"  she  said.  "But  I  don't  understand  his 
absence." 

The  gospel  according  to  ]\Ir.  Martin  was  of  the 
greatest  assistance  on  this  point. 

"Then,  my  dear,  dismiss  it  altogether,"  said  Mrs. 
Hancock,  with  relief.  "Why,  it  was  that  very  point 
that  Mr.  Martin  spoke  of  last  Sunday.  Ah!  I  re- 
member; you  could  not  go  to  church  because  of 
your  ankle.  But  he  told  us  that  we  ourselves  were 
responsible  for  most  of  our  own  unhappiness,  and 
that  if  we  only  determined  to  feel  cheerful  and  thank- 
ful we  should  find  the  causes  of  thankfulness  being 
multiplied  round  us.  Was  it  not  a  coincidence  that 
he  preached  on  that  very  subject?  One  can  hardly 
call  it  a  coincidence;  indeed,  one  feels  sure  there 
must  have  been  some  purpose  behind  it.  What 
lovely  sunshine,  is  it  not?  ..  And  there  is  the  old 
mill.  So  picturesque!  Tell  Denton  to  stop  a  mo- 
ment and  let  us  look  at  it." 


220  ARUNDEL 

A  pause  was  made  for  the  contemplation  of  this 
particular  cause  for  thankfulness,  and  Mrs.  Hancock 
put  up  her  parasol  to  temper  the  other. 

"Well,  that  is  nice!"  she  said.  "Shall  we  drive 
on?  I  have  never  heard  Mr.  Martin  more  con- 
vincing and  eloquent,  and  I'm  sure  he  practises  what 
he  preaches,  for  he  has  always  got  a  smile  and  a 
pleasant  word  for  everybody.  So  dismiss  it  all  from 
your  mind,  dear,  and  I'll  be  bound  you  will  find 
Edward  coming  down  here  before  many  days  are 
past,  just  the  same  as  ever,  showing  how  right  Mr. 
Martin  is,  for  your  cheerfulness  will  be  rewarded.  I 
see  nothing  odd  in  his  having  to  stop  up  in  town  all 
the  week;  and  as  for  his  going  away  for  a  couple  of 
Sundays  to  see  his  friends,  what  could  be  more  natu- 
ral? You  would  not  wish  him  to  be  without  friends, 
I  am  sure,  or  to  shirk  the  claims  of  friendship.  And 
since  you  said  that  his  absence  was  your  only 
ground  for  your  dreadfully  foolish  idea,  I  think  we 
may  consider  that  we've  disposed  of  that.  Now  let 
us  look  about  us  and  enjoy  ourselves.  Oh,  there's 
a  windmill!    How  its  sails  are  going  round!" 

Mrs.  Hancock  cast  a  slightly  questioning  glance 
at  her  daughter  to  see  if  jNIr.  I\Iartin's  wonderful 
prescription  was  acting  at  once,  like  laughing-gas, 
and,  finding  that  Edith  still  sat  serious  and  silent, 
proceeded  to  administer  other  fortifying  medicines. 

"He  has  often  told  us  to  busy  ourselves  with  plans 
and  thoughts  for  others,"  she  said.  "And  there, 
again,  how  he  practises  what  he  preaches:  he  has 
had  the  dining-room  repapered,  since  Mrs.  Martin 
thought  it  was  a  little  gloomy,  and  has  given  her 
the  most  beautiful  new  carpet  for  her  sitting-room. 
And  I'm  sure  I've  never  been  happier  in  my  life 
than  this  summer,  with  all  your  future,  dear,  to  plan 
and  scheme  for,  and  with  Elizabeth  as  well  to  think 


EDWARD'S  ABSENCE  221 

about.  I  must  say  I  haven't  had  a  moment  to  think 
about  myself,  even  if  I  had  wanted  to." 

Her  kind  face  beamed  with  such  smiles  as  Mr. 
Martin  considered  to  be  symptomatic  of  the  Chris- 
tian life. 

"I've  got  a  plan  about  Elizabeth,"  she  said, 
"though  it's  a  secret  yet.  But  I  should  like  to  tell 
you  about  it.  I  am  thinking  of  making  a  proposal 
to  Elizabeth  and  suggesting  that  she  should  not  go 
back  to  India  as  early  as  October.  There  is  no  great 
affection  between  her  and  her  stepmother,  and  I  ex- 
pect she  often  feels  very  lonely  and  unhappy  there, 
with  no  music  and,  as  far  as  I  can  judge,  only  sol- 
diers to  talk  to.  Dear  Elizabeth!  I  think  she  is 
enjoying  our  quiet  life  at  Heathmoor.  I  dare  say 
that  after  those  dreadful  wildernesses  and  jungles  in 
India  it  seems  to  her  one  round  of  excitement  and 
pleasure  and  parties  and  operas,  all  given  her  free. 
Indeed,  I  have  a  further  plan  still,  which  will  make 
her  quite  wild  with  pleasure,  I  am  sure.  I  am  think- 
ing of  asking  her  to  come  with  me  to  Egypt,  and  I 
have  written  to  ask  Uncle  Bob  about  it,  just  to  see 
if  he  will  allow  it  before  I  say  anything  to  her.  Of 
course,  he  would  pay  for  her  journey — and,  indeed, 
it  is  all  on  the  way  to  India — and  her  hotel  expenses. 
But  I  should  not  dream  of  charging  her  for  her 
share  of  our  sitting-room,  if  we  have  one.  I  shall  go 
shares  with  Edward  in  that,  and  I  dare  say  the 
servants  at  the  hotel  would  not  expect  her  to  tip 
them!" 

Mrs.  Hancock's  plans  for  other  people  always  ne- 
cessitated a  certain  amount  of  interpretation ;  it  was 
important  to  look  at  them  from  her  point  of  view. 
Here  the  interpretation  was  easy.  It  had  occurred 
to  her  that  she  would  be  rather  lonely  when  Edith 
and  Edward  left  after  their  marriage,  and  that  in 
Egypt  it  would  be  pleasant  to  have  somebody  in 


222  ARUNDEL' 

constant  attendance  on  her,  since  the  other  two, 
presumably,  would  want  to  make  all  kinds  of  expe- 
ditions that  she  herself  might  not  care  to  join  in. 
She  liked  Elizabeth's  vitality  and  fervour,  finding  it 
stimulating.    This  point  she  touched  on  next. 

"I  declare  Elizabeth  is  as  good  as  a  tonic,"  she 
said,  "with  all  her  high  spirits  and  gaiety,  though 
for  the  last  ten  days  she  has  not  been  quite  so  lively. 
I  dare  say  it  is  the  hot  weather,  though,  to  be  sure, 
she  ought  to  be  used  to  that.  Here  we  are,  on  the 
heath  again.  We  shall  be  at  home  in  ten  minutes. 
How  quickly  we  have  come!  Well,  my  darling,  I  do 
think  I  have  managed  to  disperse  your  clouds  for 
you  this  morning.  I  don't  think  Edward's  absence 
will  give  you  any  more  anxiety  now  that  we  have 
talked  so  fully  about  it.  There  is  nothing  like  talk- 
ing a  thing  thoroughly  over.  You  will  see  that  it 
will  not  be  long  before  his  stress  of  work  is  finished. 
Perhaps  he  is  making  quantities  and  quantities  of 
money,  for  I  hear  that  sometimes  on  the  Stock  Ex- 
change people  make  fortunes  in  quite  a  short  time. 
Would  not  that  be  exciting?" 

Mrs.  Hancock,  as  has  been  seen,  had  a  great  be- 
lief in  the  imitative  instinct,  which  she  interpreted 
by  means  of  her  own.  To  her  it  meant  that  if  she 
herself  felt  thoroughly  content  and  happy,  it  was 
certain  that  those  round  her  would  feel  happy  too, 
for  she  diffused  happiness.  In  the  same  way,  if 
she  felt  very  well  she  knew  that  she  diffused  a  spirit 
of  health.  It  was  a  comfortable  belief  (like  all  the 
clauses  of  her  creed),  and  she  would  have  been  quite 
incredulous  if  she  had  been  told  that  all  she  had 
done  was  to  accentuate  Edith's  suspicions  by  her 
allusion  to  Elizabeth's  diminished  liveliness,  and  to 
depress  her  thoroughly  at  the  thought  of  Elizabeth 
joining  them  on  the  Egyptian  tour.  And  had  Edith 
known  how  Elizabeth  had  been  spending  this  last 


EDWARD'S  ABSENCE  223 

hour  while  her  mother  had  been  so  rich  in  uncon- 
vincingness,  she  would  have  known  how  solid  her 
suspicions  really  were. 

The  girl  had  gone  up  to  her  bedroom  after  the 
motor  had  started  in  order  to  be  secure  against  any 
further  interruption,  and  had  again  read  through 
the  letter  she  had  received  from  Edward  that  morn- 
ing, which,  as  Edith  had  ascertained,  contained  two 
sheets.  She  heard  his  voice  in  the  pleading  sen- 
tences; it  seemed  to  her  as  she  read,  with  eyes  that 
ever  and  again  were  too  dim  to  decipher  the  words, 
that  he  was  actually  talking  to  her.  And  she  could 
not  interrupt  him,  argue  with  him  as  she  would 
have  done  if  he  had  been  here ;  she  had  to  fight  the 
cumulative  effect  of  those  close-written  lines.  He 
besought  her  to  allow  him  to  come  down,  for  it  was 
at  her  instance  that  he  stayed  away,  and  tell  Edith 
all.  He  scouted  as  childish  the  idea  that  absence 
could  make  any  difference,  that  he  could  forget 
what  she  had  called  "the  excited  madness  of  that 
evening."  Above  all,  again  and  yet  again,  with  a 
lover's  clamorous  iteration,  he  begged  her  to  see 
him. 

Elizabeth  sat  with  this  letter  in  front  of  her  for 
a  long  tune  after  she  had  finished  reading  and  re- 
reading it,  letting  her  tears  have  their  way  with  her. 
In  strange  guise  had  the  soft  god  come  to  her,  girt 
about  with  bitterness  and  impossibilities.  She  raged 
at  herself  for  loving  him;  she  reviled  this  torturing 
demon  that  others  found  so  sweet,  but  how  she 
longed  for  the  changed,  transfigured  aspect  that  he 
burned  to  show  her.  Once,  for  mere  relief  of  heart, 
she  filled  a  page  with  scrawled  words  of  love,  only 
to  tear  it  up  again,  and  once  she  filled  another  page 
with  useless  denials,  with  cold  assertions  that  Ed- 
ward was  nothing  to  her,  that  she  was  perfectly  in- 
different to  him.    That,  too,  was  fruitless;  he  knew 


224  ARUNDEL 

she  loved  him,  and  even  if  she  could  have  convinced 
him  that  it  was  not  so,  she  could  not  have  brought 
herself  so  to  convince  him  to  deny  the  most  sacred 
truth  that  she  had  ever  known.  She  could  no  more 
have  done  that  than  she  could  accept  the  love  which 
brought  misery  on  another  and  rose  from  the  ashes 
of  a  broken  promise.  If  there  was  no  binding  force 
in  loyalty  all  ties  were  dissolved. 

After  a  while  her  sobs  grew  quieter,  and  she  tore 
up  the  letter  she  had  begun  to  him  when  Edith,  that 
morning,  had  come  in  from  the  garden.  Till  then, 
Elizabeth  had  not  known  that  her  cousin  suspected 
anything,  that  she  had  begun  to  put  the  real  con- 
struction on  Edward's  absence.  Now  it  »was  neces- 
sary to  quiet  those  suspicions,  to  let  Edward  know 
also,  in  a  way  she  could  not  convey  by  letter,  that 
while  Edith  claimed  his  promise,  that  promise  could 
not  be  broken  for  any  reason  whatever.  Nothing 
in  the  world  seemed  so  certain  as  this.  Edith  must 
voluntarily  give  him  up  before  .  .  .  Then  she  care- 
fully erased  that  sentence.  That  contingency  was 
not  to  be  thought  of  yet. 

Elizabeth  felt  utterly  weary  and  confused  and 
heart-sick.  Obstacles,  menacing  and  monstrous, 
faced  her  in  whichever  direction  she  turned.  Per- 
haps Edward's  presence  would  only  confirm  and 
strengthen  Edith's  suspicions,  and  lead  her  to  the 
certainty  which  she  suspected.  Yet  if  Edward  con- 
tinued to  be  absent,  that  would  lead  to  a  break  on 
his  side,  at  his  initiative,  and  it  was  that  above  all 
that  must  be  avoided.  If  he  threw^  her  over,  said  he 
could  not  marry  her,  the  hosts  of  hell  and  heaven 
combined  would  not  be  able  to  bring  Elizabeth  to 
him.  She  could  not  take  what  by  right  was  Edith's 
against  Edith's  will.  It  was  possible,  and  more  than 
possible,  that  Edith  might  see  he  did  not  love  her, 
and  not  release  him  only,  but  bid  him  begone.    And 


EDWARD'S  ABSENCE  225 

yet  Edward  had  never  loved  her,  while  she,  loving 
him  in  her  own  manner,  had  been  content  with  his 
liking  and  friendly  intimacy.  When  she  knew  that 
his  heart  had  been  awakened,  but  not  for  her,  would 
she  still  desire  that  moonlight,  when  his  sun  had 
risen  on  another  land?  Elizabeth,  as  she  finished 
her  letter  to  Edward,  felt  that  she  had  not  the  slight- 
est idea. 

The  letter  got  written,  and  no  word  of  tender- 
ness or  love  appeared  in  it;  it  might  have  been 
penned  by  some  fossil  of  a  family  friend  and  written 
in  prehistoric  ink,  for  if  she  had  not  written  like  that 
there  was  but  one  other  way  in  which  she  could 
write  to  him,  and  she  would  have  said,  "I  am  com- 
ing to  you."  The  thinnest  partition,  but  a  partition 
the  most  impenetrable,  insulated  her  from  him.  On 
this  point  her  will  stood  utterly  firm.  In  this  short, 
dry  note  she  did  not  attempt  to  argue  the  question ; 
she  merely  told  him  that  he  must  come  down  at 
once,  and  put  an  end  to  Edith's  intolerable  sus- 
picions. "But  for  you  to  break  your  engagement 
to  her  will  not  bring  me  one  step  nearer  you,"  were 
the  concluding  words.  Whether  she  was  acting 
wisely  or  not,  whether  there  was  not  some  step  she 
could  take  later  that  would  be  cleverer,  more  tact- 
ful, she  could  not  consider.  The  situation  was  sim- 
ple enough,  and  they  had  to  wait  for  Edith  to  de- 
cide its  solution. 

The  thing  w^as  done;  that  cold,  hard  little  sen- 
tence that  finished  her  letter  was  written.  All  this 
last  week  of  his  absence  she  had  wondered  whether 
her  wdll  would  stand  firm  enough  to  enable  her  to 
tell  him  that,  and  to  make  no  other  answer  to  his 
pleading.  She  knew  that  when  he  came  down,  as 
he  assuredly  would  on  the  next  day,  she  would  be 
obliged  to  see  him,  to  let  him  in  justice  state  the 
case  for  himself.    But  she  had  now  her  own  word 


226  ARUNDEL 

to  bind  her;  she  would  be  able,  by  memory,  to  re- 
capture the  spirit  of  the  moment  when  she  wrote 
it.  It  was  her  definite  decision,  and  the  knowledge 
of  it  would  fortify  her.  She  would  need  it,  she  felt, 
when  she  was  face  to  face  with  him  and  her  over- 
whelming need  of  him. 

A  resolution  taken  and  embedded  in  the  mortar 
of  fact  always  gives  relief,  even  if  a  death-sentence 
is  involved  in  it.  The  acute  edge  of  suspense  is  re- 
moved, and  when  Elizabeth,  having  posted  her  let- 
ter, strolled  out  again  into  the  garden,  she  was  con- 
scious of  a  certain  tranquillity,  to  which  for  the  last 
ten  days  she  had  been  an  utter  stranger.  She  did  not 
suppose  that  there  was  anything  more  than  a  lull 
in  the  tempest;  she  knew  that  it  must  again  howl 
and  buffet  round  her,  but  even  as  on  the  night  after 
the  opera,  she  had  felt  a  momentary  calm  as  she 
looked  at  the  moonlit  flood-tide,  so  now  she  was 
given  another  respite.  But  now  she  felt  securer ;  she 
had  gained  a  little  ground,  she  could  look  out  over 
the  contention  and  estimate  the  odds  against  her 
as  less  desperate. 

It  was  just  here  she  had  walked  on  the  dewy 
morning,  in  ecstasy  of  unreflecting  happiness,  when 
the  instinct  to  give  thanks  to  Some  One  first  came 
to  her.  To-day  she  saw  the  triumphant  riot  of  mid- 
summer under  a  noonday  sun,  and  she,  no  less  than 
the  garden,  was  surrounded  by  the  burden  and  heat. 
The  dew  and  freshness  had  faded  from  the  cool 
petals,  and  the  heavy  heads  of  the  roses  drooped  on 
their  stems.  But  with  brimming  eyes  and  bitten  lip 
she  encouraged  herself  to  exhibit  a  sturdier  pluck 
than  they.  She  would  not  yield,  she  would  not  hang 
her  head,  she  would,  whatever  the  issues  might  be, 
be  grateful  to  the  power  that  had  come  into  her 
soul,  the  power  to  love.  Ignorantly,  ten  days  ago, 
she  had  thought  that  sufficient;  now,  with  greater 


EDWARD'S  ABSENCE  227 

knowledge,  she  wondered  whether  her  ignorance  had 
not  told  her  right,  after  all.  Then  it  seemed  to  mat- 
ter nothing  so  long  as  she  loved;  now,  just  for  a 
little  while,  she  knew  it  mattered  nothing.  She 
caught  a  glimpse,  as  of  snow-peaks  behind  storm- 
clouds,  of  a  reality  so  lofty,  so  serene,  that  she  al- 
most distrusted  her  eyes. 

Suddenly  her  mind  sped  on  its  magic  flight  to  the 
low  white  house  at  Peshawar,  from  which  so  often 
she  had  lifted  her  eyes  up  through  the  heat-haze 
to  the  quivering  lines  of  eternal  snows,  to  the  stead- 
fast peaks  that  rose  above  all  dust  and  storm-cloud, 
and  she  smiled  as  she  recognized  by  what  associa- 
tion of  ideas  her  mind  had  winged  its  way  thither. 
The  gardens  there  would  be  withered  in  the  heat, 
but  she  yearned  for  the  scene  where  life  had  been 
so  unperplexed.  Above  all,  she  yearned  for  her 
father,  who  even  now  retained  the  simplicity  of 
youth;  she  yearned  for  his  comradeship,  his  wis- 
dom, his  patience,  his  sympathy.  She  could  have 
told  him  all  the  trouble  so  easily  and  confidently; 
she  could  hear  him  say,  "Lizzie,  dear,  I  am  so  sorry, 
but,  of  course,  you  had  to  do  just  what  you  did." 
She  could  have  argued  with  him,  taking  the  side 
of  her  longing  and  love,  telling  him  that  nothing 
could  be  counted  or  reckoned  with  against  the  fact 
that  she  and  Edward  loved  each  other.  And  again 
she  could  hear  him  say,  "My  dear,  I  know  you  don't 
think  that  really."  And  then  she  could  have  said, 
"No,  no,  I  don't  mean  it,"  and  have  sobbed  her 
heart  out  against  that  rough  homespun  jacket  which ; 
he  wore  in  the  garden. 

The  garden!  At  the  end  was  a  low  wall,  over 
which  one  night  she  had  vaulted,  when,  just  out- 
side, lay  the  dying  Brahmin,  to  whom  a  beggar's 
death  by  the  wayside,  needy,  indigent,  was  a 
triumph  that  transcended  all  telling,  was  the  find- 


228  ARUNDEL 

ing  of  that  which  all  his  life  he  had  sought.  His 
eyes,  already  dim  in  death,  were  open  not  upon 
death,  but  life.  He  had  renounced  all  the  fair 
things  that  the  world  offered  to  find  something  in- 
finitely fairer.  Round  him,  tired,  hungry,  dying,  the 
banner  of  some  stupcndt)us  triumph  waved. 

How  had  he  reached  that?    By  seeking. 

And  how  had  he  sought?    By  renunciation. 

And  what  had  he  found?    Life. 

The  moment  had  worn  the  vividness  and  splen- 
dour of  a  dream,  and  Elizabeth  was  again  conscious 
of  the  heavy-headed  flovrers  and  the  noonday  heat. 
The  wheels  of  the  motor  scraped  on  the  gravel 
sweep  at  the  other  side  of  the  house,  and  in  an- 
other minute  she  would  be  plunged  back  in  the 
deeds  and  the  needs  of  every  day.  But  she  no 
longer  felt  so  utterly  alone  and  desolate;  far  behind 
the  storm  she  had  seen  the  snows,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment the  moonlight  had  shone  on  the  face  of  the 
dying  Bralimin.  There  was  some  tie  between  them 
all,  something  that  expressed  itself  in  the  peace  of 
the  great  silence,  and  in  the  vision  of  the  dying 
eyes,  and — was  she  not  right  in  hoping? — in  the 
choice  she  had  just  made.  There  was  one  thread 
running  through  them,  there  was  a  factor  common 
to  them  all. 

And  here  was  Mrs.  Hancock  coming  into  the  gar- 
den. 

"My  dear,  is  it  wise  to  be  out  in  this  sun  without 
a  hat?"  she  asked.  "You  have  had  a  nice  quiet  time 
for  your  practising,  haven't  you?  I  was  telling  Edith 
that  I  felt  sure  Edward  would  think  you  had  got 
on,  when  he  comes  down  here  again." 


CHAPTER   X 

Edward's  return 

Elizabeth's  letter  to  Edward  had  pressed  upon  him 
an  immediate  return  to  Heathmoor,  at  the  cost  of 
his  week-end  engagement,  if  such  existed.  To  them 
both  the  desire  of  their  hearts  for  each  other  had 
been  revealed  on  that  night  of  the  opera,  as  chaos 
suddenly  made  manifest  by  a  flash  of  lightning,  and 
on  all  considerations  it  had  been  more  decent  and 
wise  that  he  should  absent  himself.  But,  as  Eliza- 
beth had  foreseen,  this  absence  could  not  indefinitely 
continue,  since  it  implied  absence  from  Edith  as  well 
as  herself,  and  was  but  of  the  nature  of  a  temporary 
measure,  to  give  breathing-space  and  time  for  re- 
flection. She  had  told  him,  but  not  with  confidence, 
that  absence  would  restore  his  legitimate  allegiance; 
poor  girl,  she  had  but  little  trust  herself  in  the  mild- 
ness of  that  prescription,  which  was,  so  to  speak,  but 
a  dose  where  the  knife  was  called  for.  In  any  case, 
Edith's  revealed  suspicions  had  rendered  his  return 
necessary.  Whatever  the  solution  of  that  knot  into 
which  the  heart-strings  of  three  young  folk  were 
tangled,  it  must  be  dealt  with  by  his  presence  here. 
For  both  girls  the  interval  before  he  could  an- 
swer, whether  his  reply  was  an  argued  negative  to 
Elizabeth  or  an  affirmative  announcement  to  Edith, 
passed  in  acute  discomfort,  that  rose  and  fell,  like 
the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  physical  pain  of  some  deep- 
seated  mischief,  into  crises  of  anguish  and  numb 
reactions.     There  was  not  an  employment,  there 

229 


230  ARUNDEL 

was  scarcely  a  topic  of  conversation  that  did  not 
conduct  them  sooner  or  later  to  an  impassable  road, 
where  was  a  red  flag  and  a  danger  signal.  The  hours 
passed  in  broken  conversation  and  aching  silences, 
with  Edith  sentinelled  about  liy  her  fears  and  jeal- 
ousies, Elizabeth  torn  with  longings,  and  hearing 
amid  the  troubled  peace  of  her  renunciation  voices 
that  accused  her  of  bitter  cruelty  to  lierself  and  to 
him  and  poured  scorn  on  the  tragic  folly  of  her  re- 
fusal. Twenty  times  tliat  day  she  felt  she  could 
barely  resist  the  need  of  telegraphing  to  him,  can- 
celling her  letter,  and,  acceding  to  his  imperative 
desire,  of  simply  taking  the  next  train  up  to  town, 
going  to  him,  and  saying,  ''I  have  comc.'^  But  her 
will  renounced  him  still,  and  her  will  still  dominated 
her  deeds.  And  all  the  time  she  knew  that  Edith 
watched  her  with  sidelong  glances  that  were  quickly 
removed  wlien  her  own  eyes  met  them.  Sometimes 
it  seemed  that  Edith  must  speak,  so  intense  was  the 
miserable  strain,  but  she  always  shied  away  at  the 
last  moment.  Over  those  paljMtating  duellists,  who 
never  quite  came  to  blows,  presided  Mrs.  Hancock, 
unconscious  and  bland,  foolish  and  voluble.  She 
had  experienced  a  moment's  discomfort  this  morn- 
ing, when  EfUth  spoke  to  her  of  Edward's  continued 
absence,  but,  as  Mr.  Martin  would  have  her  do,  she 
dismissed  it  with  complete  success  from  her  mind, 
telling  herself  that  she  had  quite  cleared  it  all  up, 
and  made  Edith  comfortable  again.  The  obvious 
constraint  that  hung  over  the  two  girls  she  merely 
refused  to  admit  into  her  mind.  It  might  batter 
and  ring  at  the  door,  and  there  was  no  need  for  her 
even  to  open  that  door  a  chink,  and  assert  that  she 
was  out.  She  sat  and  knitted  at  her  crossovers,  and 
in  the  evening  played  patience,  refusing  to  hear  the 
signals  of  distress  and  trouble.  Next  day  came  a 
telegram  from  Edward  to  Edith  announcing  his  ar- 


EDWARD'S  RETURN  231 

rival  at  half-past  seven  that  evening,  and  askmg, 
or  rather  supposing,  that  he  might  dine  with  them. 
It  was  delivered  at  lunch-time,  and  Edith,  as  she 
tore  it  open,  glanced  at  Ehzabeth  opposite,  and  saw 
the  sudden  whiteness  of  her  face,  saw  that  she  sat 
with  her  fork  half-raised  to  her  lips,  then  put  it  back 
on  her  plate  again,  that  she  waited  with  hand 
pressed  to  the  table  to  control  its  trembling.  His 
message  gave  rise  to  debate,  for  Mrs.  Hancock  and 
Edith  were  engaged  to  dine  at  the  Vicarage  that 
night,  and  a  small  solitary  dinner  had  already,  three 
hours  before,  been  ordered  for  Elizabeth.  There 
was  to  be  a  slip,  a  lamb  cutlet — quite  enough  and 
not  too  much. 

"Of  course,  it  would  be  natural,"  said  Mrs.  Han- 
cock, "to  ask  him  to  come  and  have  a  little  dinner 
with  you,  dear  Elizabeth,  and  then  you  could  amuse 
yourselves  by  playing  to  each  other  afterwards  till 
Edith  and  I  returned.  And  then  Edith  and  I  could 
have  made  an  excuse  to  get  away  perhaps  at 
ten,  or  even  five  minutes  before.  But  now  your 
dinner  is  ordered;  it  is  very  provoking,  and  Mrs. 
Williams " 

Edith  interrupted,  watching  Elizabeth  narrowly. 
Her  jealousy  seemed  to  have  divided  itself  into  two 
camps.  Part  (and  for  the  moment  this  was  the 
stronger)  allied  itself  wdth  this  scheme;  if  Eliza- 
beth and  Edward  had  an  evening  together,  things 
(if  there  were  things)  would  declare  themselves; 
there  would  be  an  answer  to  that  eternal  question,  "I 
want  to  know;  I  want  to  know!" 

"That's  a  delightful  plan,  mother,"  she  said;  "and 
surely  Mrs.  Williams  has  got  some  cold  beef.  Ed- 
ward says  nobody  can  need  more  than  plenty  of 
cold  beef  for  dinner.  He  and  Elizabeth  will  enjoy 
an  evening  together;  they  will  talk  over  the  opera 


232  ARUXDEL 

and  play.  And  we  shan't  be  obliged  to  hurry  back 
from  the  Martins'." 

This  rather  diabolical  speech  hit  its  mark.  Eliza- 
beth blushed  furiously  as  she  heard  the  yapping 
bitterness  in  Edith's  voice.  And  it  was  not  only 
with  the  rush  of  the  conscious  blood  that  her  face 
flared;  anger  flamed  at  the  innuendo,  the  double 
meanings. 

"In  fact,  I  needn't  reply  to  Edward's  telegram  at 
all,"  said  Edith,  "and  he  will  naturally  come  here 
for  dinner." 

EHzabeth  looked  up  at  her  cousin.  At  the  mo- 
ment she  completely  and  fervently  hated  her. 

"Oh,  that  wouldn't  do,  E(hth!'''  she  said.  "Ed- 
ward would  come  over  here  all  anxiety  to  see  you, 
and  find  only  me.  He  would  l)e  horriiily  disap- 
pointed and  make  himself  very  disagreeable.  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  he  went  straight  back  to  Lon- 
don again." 

That  was  the  first  pass  of  the  naked  swords  be- 
tween them;  yesterday  they  had  not  come  to  the 
touch  of  the  steel,  and  the  first  bout  was  distinctly 
in  Elizabeth's  favour.  Elizabeth  had  not  parried 
only,  she  had  attacked.  And  yet  it  was  only  with 
foolish  words  that  could  not  wound  that  she  had 
thrust.  Had  Edith  only  known,  her  cousin  was 
fighting  for  her  with  a  loyalty  that  was  as  divine 
as  it  was  human,  and  calling  on  the  loyalty  of  her 
lover  to  be  up  in  arms.  But  her  assault,  with  its 
sharp  double  meaning,  only  gratified  a  moment's 
laudable  savagery  and  she  instantly  turned  to  her 
aunt. 

"Oh,  Aunt  Julia,"  she  said,  "I  should  so  like  an 
evening  alone.  Do  tell  Edward  you  are  out ;  he  can 
be  here  all  Sunday.  I  want  to  write  to  Daddy  and 
I  want  to  practise.    Not  play,  but  practise." 

"Well,  it  would  put  Mrs.  Williams  out,"  said  Mrs. 


EDWARD'S  RETURN  233 

Hancock,  "to  know  that  she  had  to  provide  dinner 
for  Edward  as  well,  for  as  for  letting  him  eat  noth- 
ing but  cold  beef,  I  think  she  would  sooner  leave 
my  service  than  do  that.  Edward  is  a  great  favour- 
ite with  Mrs.  Williams.  Indeed,  where  she  would 
get  provisions  I  don't  know,  for  it's  early  closing, 
and  even  such  shops  as  we  have  here  are  shut.  I 
think  your  plan  is  the  best,  dear,  and  your  father 
wouldn't  like  not  to  hear  from  you,  and  then  there's 
your  practice  as  well.  I'll  write  a  note  to  him.  Has 
everybody  finished?  And  which  of  you  would  like 
to  drive  with  me  this  afternoon?" 

Elizabeth,  conscious  of  her  own  loyalty,  did  not 
in  the  least  mind  having  another  thrust  at  her 
cousin.  Edith  had  provoked  her;  Edith  should  take 
the  consequences — the  superficial  ones.  She  turned 
to  her. 

"It  will  be  a  good  punishment  for  Edward,"  she 
said,  "to  find  that  you  are  out.  You  will  be  pay- 
ing him  back  in  his  own  coin  for  keeping  away  so 
long.  Perhaps  he  will  come  round  after  you  get 
back.  If  I  were  you  I  should  say  I  was  tired  and 
would  not  see  him." 

Edith  looked  at  her  with  her  real  anxiety,  making 
anxious,  imploring  signals.  Elizabeth  saw  and  dis- 
regarded them. 

"Of  course,  it  would  be  the  worst  punishment  of 
all  for  him,"  she  said,  "if  you  let  him  come  round 
expecting  to  find  you  and  he  found  only  me  alone 
with  my  lamb-cutlet.  But  you  mustn't  punish  him 
as  much  as  that,  Edith.    It  would  be  too  cruel." 

Mrs.  Hancock  had  passed  out  of  the  dining-room 
on  the  quest  for  the  longer  paragraphs  in  the  Morn- 
ing Post,  and  for  a  moment  the  two  girls  faced  each 
other.  Elizabeth  was  still  quivering  with  indigna- 
tion at  Edith's  first  wanton  attack,  the  attack  which 
sounded  so  friendly  and  pleasant  a  salutation  and 


234  ARUNDEL 

which  both  knew  was  so  far  otherwise.  And  if 
Edith  only  knew  what  wrestlings,  what  blind 
strivings  after  light  Elizabeth  had  undergone  for 
her.  .  .  . 

"Don't  scold  him  too  much,"  she  said.  "He  is 
so  nice.  I  love  Edward!  Shall  I  drive  with  Aunt 
Julia  this  afternoon,  or  would  you  like  to?" 

Elizabeth  ran  upstairs  to  her  room  and  locked 
herself  in.  Already  she  was  sick  at  heart  for  her 
barren  dexterity.  She  had  pricked  Edith  with  her 
point,  made  her  wince,  startled  her  into  miserable 
silence.  And  what  was  the  good  of  it  all?  It  did 
not  even  for  the  moment  allay  the  savage  anguish  of 
her  own  wound.  She  threw  herself  on  her^bed  and 
sobbed. 

By  soon  after  eight  she  had  finished  her  dinner 
and  was  sitting  in  the  drawing-room,  neither  writ- 
ing to  her  father  nor  practising.  For  the  last  half- 
hour  she  had  had  one  overpowering  sensation  in  her 
mind,  wliich  absorbed  the  active  power  of  thought, 
and  spread  itself  like  a  dense  enveloping  mist,  ob- 
scuring all  other  perceptions — namely,  the  knowl- 
edge that  in  the  house  next  door  Edward  sat  alone, 
or  perhaps  walked  in  the  garden,  longing  to  catch 
sight  of  her  over  the  low  brick  wall.  She,  too,  would 
have  spent  this  hour  of  darkening  twilight  outside 
but  for  fear  of  seeing  him,  or  more  exactly  but  for 
the  longing  to  see  him  which  she  must  starve  and 
deny.  No  doubt  she  would  have  to  see  him,  have 
to  listen  to  his  pleading;  but  it  was  part  of  her 
resolve  that  she  would  use  all  her  will  to  hold  her- 
self apart.  But  the  thought  of  him  possessed  her, 
and  she  could  not  concentrate  her  mind  enough  even 
to  attempt  to  practise  or  to  write  her  overdue  letter. 
It  had  taken  all  her  nervous  force  to  arrive  where 
she  was;  now,  like  a  bird  after  the  flight  of  migra- 
tion, she  had  to  rest,  to  let  the  time  go  by,  without 


EDWARD'S  RETURN  235 

stirring  up  her  activities ;  for  any  activity  she  roused 
seemed  to  be  directed  from  the  cause  of  purpose 
that  excited  it,  and  to  be  sucked  into  the  mill-race 
that  but  ran  the  swifter  for  an  added  volume  of 
awakened  perception. 

Soon  mere  inactivity  became  even  more  impos- 
sible than  employment,  and  she  opened  the  piano. 
The  wonder  of  music,  which  his  love  had  so  magi- 
cally quickened  in  her,  perhaps  would  not  desert 
her  even  now,  and  she  set  herself  to  study  the  in- 
tellectual as  well  as  the  technical  intricacies  of 
Brahms'  variations  on  the  Handel  themes.  If  she 
could  give  them  any  attention  at  all,  she  felt  she 
could  give  them  her  whole  attention;  it  was  im- 
possible merely  to  paddle  knee-deep  in  that  pro- 
found and  marvellous  sea;  you  had  either  to  swim, 
or  not  enter  it  at  all.  She  bent  her  mind  to  her 
work,  as  a  man  bends  the  resisting  strength  of  a 
bow.  She  would  string  it ;  she  willed  that  it  should 
bend  itself  to  its  task. 

How  marvellous  was  this  artistic  vision!  To  the 
composer,  the  theme  was  like  some  sweet,  simple 
landscape,  a  sketch  of  quiet  country  with  a  stream, 
perhaps,  running  through  it.  Then  he  set  himself 
to  see  it  in  twenty  different  ways.  He  saw  it  with 
gentle  morning  sunshine  asleep  over  it;  he  saw  it 
congested  with  winter,  green  with  the  young  growth 
of  spring,  triumphant  in  the  blaze  of  summer,  and 
gorgeous  w^ith  the  flare  of  the  dying  year.  He  saw  it 
with  rain-clouds  lowering  on  its  hills  and  swelling 
its  streams  with  gathered  waters;  he  saw  it  under- 
neath the  lash  of  rain,  and  echoing  to  the  drums  of 
thunder;  he  saw  it  beneath  the  moonlight,  and 
white  with  starshine  on  snow. 

Suddenly  Elizabeth  held  her  hands  suspended 
over  the  keys,  and  in  her  throat  a  breath  suspended. 
Through  the  maze  of  melody  she  had  heard  another 


236  ARUNDEL 

sound,  faint  and  tingling,  that  pierced  through  the 
noise  of  the  vibrating  strings.  A  bell  had  rung. 
Hearing  it,  she  knew  that  unconsciously  she  had 
been  listening  for  it  with  the  yearning  with  which 
the  eyes  of  the  shipwrecked  watch  for  a  sail. 

There  were  steps  in  the  hall,  a  few  words  of  in- 
distinguishable talk,  and  she  turned  round  on  her 
music-stool  and  faced  the  door.  It  opened,  whis- 
pering on  the  thick  carpet,  and  Edward  stood  there. 

In  silence  he  held  out  both  hands  to  her,  and  she 
rose.    But  she  did  not  advance  to  him,  or  he  to  her. 

She  felt  her  lip  trembling  as  she  spoke. 

"You  should  not  have  come,"  she  said. 

"You  told  me  to  come." 

"But  not  to  me.    I  told  you  to  come  to  Edith." 

He  sat  down  in  a  chair  near  her. 

"You  have  got  to  hear  what  I  have  to  say,"  he 
said.    "You  have  not  heard  it  yet," 

"Yes;  you  have  written  to  me.  I  have  answered 
you." 

"I  can't  express  myself  in  writing.  I  can  only 
write  symbols  of  what  I  mean." 

"I  understood  your  symbols  very  well.  I  am  sure 
you  understood  mine." 

It  seemed  to  her  that  the  real  struggle  had  only 
just  begun.  Even  as  he  had  said,  what  he  wrote 
had  only  been  symbols  compared  to  the  awful  reality 
of  his  presence.  The  short,  sharp  sentence  that  each 
had  spoken  rang  with  keen  hostility;  in  each  love 
was  up  in  arms,  battling,  as  with  an  enemy,  for  a 
victory  that  must  be  hard  won. 

"You  speak  as  if  you  hated  me  for  coming,"  he 
said.    "If  you  do,  I  can't  help  it." 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  him. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  don't  make  it  harder  for  me,"  she 
isaid.    "It's  hard  enough  akeady.    I  can't  bear  much 


EDWARD'S  RETURN  237 

"I  am  going  to  make  it  as  hard  for  you  as  I  pos- 
sibly can,"  said  he.  "I  don't  care  what  it  costs  you, 
so  long  as  I  convince  you." 

"You  won't  even  convince  me." 

"I  shall  try  my  best.  I  believe  your  happiness 
as  well  as  mine  is  at  stake." 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  his  voice,  which  had 
been  low  and  quiet,  like  hers,  suddenly  raised  itself. 

"I  want  you!"  he  cried.  "Oh,  can  you  know  what 
it  means  to  want  like  that?  I  don't  believe  you 
can,  or  you  could  not  resist.  Do  you  realize  what 
has  happened?  how,  by  a  miracle  of  God-sent  luck, 
we  two  have  found  each  other?  And  you  think  that 
there  can  be  an  obstacle  between  us!  There  can't 
be!  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  that  is  real 
enough  to  come  between  us.  You  do  love  me.  I 
was  wrong  when  I  said  I  didn't  believe  you  knew 
what  it  meant  to  want.  When,  for  one  moment,  you 
clung  to  me,  you  knew.  You  were  real  then;  you 
were  yourself.  But  since  then  you  have  held  up 
a  barrier  between  us.    I  am  here  to  tear  it  down." 

"You  can't  tear  it  down,"  said  Elizabeth. 

"You  shall  tear  it  down  yourself.  I  didn't  know 
what  love  meant  when  I  got  engaged  to  Edith ;  that 
was  because  I  hadn't  seen  you.  Oh,  I  know,  two 
years  ago  I  had  set  eyes  on  you,  but  I  hadn't  seen 
you.  It  was  obvious  that  I  couldn't  love  just  be- 
cause I  hadn't  seen  you.  I  couldn't  unlock  my  heart 
without  the  key.  And  you  were  the  key.  Elizabeth, 
oh,  Elizabeth,  I  worship  you !  Oh,  my  darling,  what 
is  the  use  of  torturing  me  as  you  have  been  doing 
during  these  awful  days!  You  won't  go  on — you 
won't!" 

He  had  left  his  chair  and  was  kneeling  before  her, 
with  his  hands  clasped  together  on  her  lap.  As  he 
had  said,  his  written  words  were  but  symbols  com- 
pared to  the  reality;  they  were  but  as  pictures  of 


238  ARUNDEL 

flames  compared  to  the  burning  of  authentic  fire, 
as  splashes  of  paint  compared  to  actual  sunshine. 
She  could  not  speak  just  yet;  only  with  the  quiver- 
ing semblance  of  a  smile  and  eyes  that  were  bright 
with  tears  could  she  answer  him.  But  she  did  not 
shrink  from  him,  nor  move,  and  she  laid  her  hands 
on  his. 

"Edward!"  she  said  at  last,  and  again,  "Edward!" 

Against  some  inward  weight  of  unacknowledged 
conviction  he  allowed  himself  to  hope,  and,  bending, 
he  kissed  the  hands  that  lay  on  his.  Not  now,  even, 
did  she  shrink,  for  she  could  not.  It  was  as  much 
as  she  could  do  not  to  respond.  And  she  could  not 
respond. 

"You  see,  then?"  he  whispered.  "At  last  you 
see!" 

He  looked  up  and  faced  the  tender,  inexorable 
love  in  her  eyes. 

"I  see  more  clearly  than  ever,"  she  said.  "Please, 
dear,  don't  interrupt  me.  Not  by  word  or  by  look 
even.  I  can't  marry  you  unless — unless  Edith  vol- 
untarily gives  you  up.  I  can't.  I  can't  accept  love 
that  can  be  mine  only  through  your  disloyalty, 
through  your  breaking  a  promise  you  have  given. 
And  I  can't  let  you  take  my  love  on  those  terms. 
It  would  kill  love;  it  would  kill  the  most  sacred 
thing  there  is.  No;  loyalty  is  as  sacred.  And  you 
mustn't  ask  her  to  set  you  free.  Love  can  only  give, 
only  give — it  cannot  ask  for  itself." 

He  got  up.  wild  with  impotent  yearning,  inflamed 
to  his  inmost  fibre. 

"But  are  you  flesh  and  blood!"  he  cried,  "or  are 
you  some — some  unsubstantial  phantom  that  does 
not  feel?" 

She  rose  also  with  fire  of  loyalty  to  meet  his  fire 
of  passion,  and  flung  out  her  words  with  a  strength 
that  more  than  matched  his  violence. 


EDWARD'S  RETURN  239 

"No,  I  am  flesh  and  blood,"  she  said,  "and  you 
know  that  I  love  you.  But  love  is  holier  to  me 
than  to  you.  I  can't  love  you  differently.  We  can 
never  come  together  while  a  single  thread  of  loy- 
alty, of  common  honour,  has  to  be  snapped  to  let 
us." 

He  interrupted. 

"Trust  your  heart,  my  darling,"  he  said;  "only 
trust  that!" 

"I  do  trust  it.  And  I  trust  yours.  You  know  you 
are  battling  with  not  me  alone,  but  yourself.  There 
is  something  within  you  that  tells  you  I  am  right." 

"My  cowardice.  Nothing  more.  My  fear  of  un- 
pleasant things  for  which  my  real  self  does  not  care 
two  straws." 

She  shook  her  head  at  him;  then  advanced  and 
laid  her  long  hands  on  his  shoulders. 

"It  is  just  your  real  self  that  does  care,"  she  said. 
"Oh,  my  dear,  I  do  not  mean  it  is  your  false  self 
that  loves  me.  But  it  is  your  false  self  that  has 
been  urging  me  to-night.  Edward" — and  again  her 
lips  so  trembled  that  she  could  scarcely  speak — 
"Edward,  I  don't  want  to  spare  you  one  moment 
of  the  wTetchedness  that  has  come  upon  us,  nor 
would  I  spare  myself.  If  we  were  not  suffering  so, 
we  should  not  love  so.  All  our  suffering  is  part  of 
our  love.  I  don't  know  why  it  has  happened  like 
this,  why  God  didn't  allow  us  to  meet  sooner.  And 
that  doesn't  concern  us.  It  is  so.  What  does  con- 
cern us  is  not  to  graft  our  love  on  to  disloyalty  and 
unfaithfulness.  It  is  in  our  power  to  do  right.  I 
can't  deliberately  choose  to  fiiid  happiness  for  you 
or  for  me  in  a  crime." 

"Crime!" 

"Yes,  the  worst  sort  of  crime,  for  it  is  one  that  is 
a  crime  that  we  should  commit  against  each  other. 
I  don't  think" — and  a  shadow  of  a  smile  hung  round 


240  ARUXDEL 

Elizabeth's  mouth — "I  don't  thmk  I  should  feel  so 
very  bad  if  I  murdered  some  one  whom  I  hate.  But 
in  this  I  should  be  murdering  all  that  is  best  in  the 
man  I  love." 

"You  are  talking  wildly!"  he  said.  "Murder! 
What  nonsense!" 

"I  never  spoke  more  deliberately,"  said  she. 

Again  he  was  stung  to  a  frenzy  of  impotence. 

"And  you  admit  you  love  me!"  he  cried.  "You 
admit  it!" 

"But  of  course.    Don't — don't  be  so  silly!" 

"But  I  can't  do  it.  I  can't  let  you  go!"  he  broke 
out  again.  "And  would  you  have  me  marry  Edith, 
you.  who  talk  about  the  sacrechiess  of  loye?" 

Elizabctii  pushed  liim  gently  away  from  her. 

"I  don't  know.  I  haven't  had  room  in  me  to  think 
about  that,"  she  said.  "It  has  taken  me,  well — all 
my  time  to  think  about  us." 

He  was  silent  a  moment. 

"Do  you  think  she  will  let  me  go,  when  she 
knows?"  he  asked. 

"I  think  she  does  know.  At  least  I  think  she 
guesses." 

"Weir?" 

"I  can't  tell.  But  I  think  she  loves  you.  I  am 
sure  she  loves  you.  And  it  is  hard  to  let  go  a  person 
one  loves." 

"It's  impossible!"  he  cried  suddenly. 

"She  may  find  it  so." 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  her,"  said  he. 

He  stretched  out  his  arms  wide  and  towards  her. 

"Elizabeth!"  he  crierl. 

She  wavered  where  she  stood.  Never  yet  had  the 
balance  hung  so  evenly,  as  when  now  he  made  his 
final  appeal  to  her.  wordless  except  for  her  own 
name,  for  into  that  his  whole  soul  went.  She  felt 
dragged  to  him  by  a  force  almost  irresistible.    From 


EDWARD'S  RETURN  241 

him  and  her  alike  for  the  moment  all  the  ties  and 
considerations  of  loyalty  and  honour  were  loosed; 
he  knew  only  his  overmastering  need,  she,  the  in- 
tensity of  a  woman's  longing  to  give  herself.  Had 
the  choice  been  then  for  the  first  time  to  be  made, 
she  would  have  flung  herself  to  him.  But  the  force 
of  the  choice  she  had  made  before  had  already  made 
itself  firm  wuthin  her. 

''No,  no,  no!"  she  said,  and  the  words  were  drops 
of  blood.  Then  once  more  she  had  power  to  turn 
from  him. 

She  went  back  to  the  piano  to  close  it,  and  me- 
chanically shut  up  the  music  she  had  been  playing 
from.  Then,  though  she  had  heard  nothing,  she 
felt  that  some  change  had  come  into  the  room. 
From  the  edge  of  the  field  of  vision  she  saw  that  Ed- 
ward had  turned  towards  the  door,  and  she  looked. 
The  door  was  open,  and  Edith  stood  there. 

Elizabeth  let  the  piano-lid  slip  from  her  hands, 
and  it  fell  with  a  bang  and  jar  of  wires. 

"You  are  back  early,"  she  said.  "At  least  it  is 
early,  is  it  not?    Has  Aunt  Julia  come  back?" 

"No.  I  telephoned  for  the  car,  and  left  almost 
immediately  after  dinner.  My  ankle  began  to  hurt 
again." 

The  reaction  after  her  struggle  had  begun  in 
Elizabeth.  Though  it  was  for  Edith's  advantage  she 
had  done  battle,  it  w^as  not  for  Edith's  sake,  and  the 
sight  of  her  cousin  suddenly  filled  her  with  bitter 
resentment.  She  felt  perfectly  sure  also  that  this 
reason  for  her  return  was  wholly  fictitious;  she  had 
come  back  like  this  for  an  entirely  different  pur- 
pose.   Elizabeth  feigned  an  exaggerated  sympathy. 

"Oh,  I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said,  "and  surely,  Edith, 
it  is  madness  to  stand  like  that.  I  am  sure  you  are 
in  agonies.  Of  course  you  will  go  to  bed  at  once. 
Shall  not  I  ring  for  Filson?    And  then  I  will  tele- 


242  ARUNDEL 

phone  and  ask  Dr.  Frank  to  come  round  imme- 
diately. Is  it  very  bad?  Poor  dear!  But  anyhow 
you  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Edward.  You  did 
not  expect  to  find  him  here,  did  you?    Did  you?" 

Goaded  and  self-accused  of  a  foolish  attempt  at 
deceit,  Edith  turned  to  her. 

"Yes,  I  did,"  she  said,  "I  thought  it  extremely 
probable." 

"Ah,  and  can  it  have  been  for  the  sake  of  finding 
him  here  as  much  as  for  the  sake  of  your  ankle, 
which  I  see  you  still  continue  to  stand  on,  that  you 
came  back?  Edward,  do  you  hear?  Edith  expected 
to  find  you  hero.  So  she  is  not  disappointed.  And 
I'm  sure  her  ankle  feels  much  better."    » 

It  was  scarcely  possible  to  believe  that  this  jeer- 
ing, scoffing  girl  was  the  same  who  five  minutes  l)e- 
fore  pleaded  with  her  lover  with  sudi  womanly 
strength,  such  splendid  self-repression,  or  that  she 
could  have  thus  battled  for  the  rights  of  her  whom 
she  now  so  bitterly  taunted.  And  indeed  the  mere 
identity  of  lulith  was  but  a  casual  accident;  EHza- 
betli  had  ranged  herself  on  the  side  of  a  principle 
rather  than  the  instance  of  it.  For  the  rest,  after  the 
scene  in  which  she  had  called  upon  every  ounce  of 
her  moral  force  to  aid  her,  she  had  nervously,  en- 
tirely collapsed  with  a  jar  like  that  of  the  fallen 
piano-hd.  Then  her  collapse  spread  a  little  farther; 
the  angr>'  fire  that  burned  in  her  for  this  pitiful 
subterfuge  went  out.  and,  swaying  as  she  stood,  she 
put  her  hands  before  her  eyes. 

"I'm  giddy!"  she  said.  "I'm  afraid  I'm  going  to 
faint!" 

Edward  took  a  quick  step  towards  her,  but  she 
waved  him  aside  and  fell  on  to  the  sofa.  Edith 
looked  at  her  without  moving. 

"You  will  be  all  right  if  you  sit  still  a  moment," 
she  said,  "and  then  I  think  it  is  you  who  had  better 


i 


EDWARD'S  RETURN  243 

go  to  bed.  As  Edward  is  here,  I  want  to  talk  to  him 
privately.  Leave  her  alone,  Edward;  she  is  better 
left  alone." 

He  paid  no  attention  to  this,  and  went  to  the  sofa. 

"Can  I  do  anything  for  you?"  he  said.  "Can't  I 
get  you  some  water,  or  some  brandy?" 

EHzabeth  sat  up. 

"I  shall  be  all  right,"  she  said.  "I  will  just  sit 
here  a  minute  or  two.  Then  I  will  go.  Edith  wants 
to  talk  to  you.  She — she  has  not  seen  you  for  so 
long." 

Slowly  her  vitality  returned,  and  with  it  for  the 
second  time  that  day  the  aching  sense  of  the  use- 
lessness  of  her  bitter,  ironical  words  to  her  cousin, 
of  the  sheer  stupidity  of  their  wrangle.  If  Edith 
chose  to  tell  a  foolish  tale  about  her  ankle,  it  con- 
cerned nobody  but  herself.  It  did  not  matter,  for 
one  thing  only  in  the  world  mattered.  And  with  re- 
gard to  that,  for  the  present,  she  felt  a  total  apathy. 
She  had  done  her  part;  nobody,  not  even  herself, 
could  require  anything  more  of  her.  She  felt  hugely 
and  overwhelmingly  tired,  nothing  more  at  all.  She 
got  up. 

"I  shall  take  your  advice,  Edith,  an'd  go  to  bed," 
she  said.  "If  there  is  anything  you  want  to  teU  me 
afterwards,  please  come  up  to  my  room.  Good- 
night, Edward!" 

Not  till  her  steps  had  passed  away  up  the  stairs 
did  either  of  the  two  others  speak.  Edith's  face, 
firm,  pretty,  plump,  showed  not  the  slightest  sign  of 
emotion.  She  stood  in  front  of  the  empty  fire-place, 
waving  her  feather  fan  backwards  and  forwards  op- 
posite her  knee,  looking  at  it. 

"I  think  you  had  better  tell  me  what  has  hap- 
pened," she  said.  "Or  if  you  find  a  difiBculty  in 
doing  that  I  will  tell  you.  You  imagine  that  you 
have  fallen  in  love  with  Elizabeth." 


244  ARUNDEL 

An  answer  seemed  superfluous.  After  a  little 
pause  she  apparently  thought  so  too,  and  went  on, 
still  in  the  same  quiet,  passionless  tone. 

"I  have  often  watched  you  and  her,"  she  said. 
"She  has  used  her  music  as  an  instrument  to  en- 
courage you  and  draw  you  on " 

"That  is  not  so!"  said  Edward. 

"Of  course  you  are  bound  to  defend  her.  It  is 
manly  of  you,  and  what  I  should  expect  from  you. 
But  that  docs  not  matter." 

"Yes,  it  does  matt4?r,"  said  he.  "Throughout  the 
fault  has  been  entirely  mine.  You  have  got  to  be- 
lieve that.  You  do  not  understand  her  at  all  if  you 
think  otherwise." 

"I  do  not  want  to  understand  Elizabeth.  Her  na- 
ture and  mine  are  so  far  apart  that  I  do  not  attempt 
to  understand  her.  What  is  perfectly  clear  to  me  is 
that  she  knew  that  you  and  I  were  engaged,  and  she 
has  tried  to  come  between  us.  So  far  I  understand 
her.  and  for  me  that  is  far  enough." 

Edward  looked  at  her.  Half  an  hour  ago  he  had 
wondered  whether  Elizabeth  was  flesh  and  blood. 
Now  he  wondered  if  Edith  was. 

"You  are  absolutely  mistaken  about  her,"  he  said. 
"It  is  she  who  has  been  unswervingly  loyal  to  you. 
The  disloyalty  has  been  entirely  mine.  I  know  I 
can't  make  you  believe  it.  but  it  is  so." 

Edith  met  his  eye  looking  at  her  steadily  with- 
out tremor. 

"Yes.  you  can  make  me  believe  it,  if  you  ask  me 
to  release  you  from  your  engagement  to  me,"  she 
said.    "Do  you  do  that?" 

The  waving  of  her  fan  ceased  as  she  waited  for 
his  answer.  She  stood  absolutely  still,  a  marvel  of 
self-control. 

"No,  I  don't  ask  that,"  he  said.    "All  the  same, 


EDWARD'S  RETURN  245 

you  must  believe  what  I  tell  you  about  your 
cousin." 

"And  if  I  can't?" 

"I  will  force  you  to.  I  will  tell  you  what  hap- 
pened on  the  night  of  the  opera;  I  will  tell  you  why 
I  have  kept  away  all  these  days.  I  will  even  show 
you  the  letter  from  her  that  brought  me  back.  You 
will  have  to  believe." 

For  the  moment  nothing  seemed  to  matter  to 
him  except  that  Edith  should  believe  this,  and  in 
the  silence  that  followed  he  watched  her  face,  and 
marvelled  at  the  change  that  came  there.  It  was 
as  if  it  was  possible  to  see  the  belief  penetrating 
into  her  brain,  and  transforming  her  features,  even 
as  the  thaws  of  the  spring  penetrate  into  the  con- 
gealed ground,  softening  its  outlines  and  bedewing 
the  spear-heads  of  frozen  grass  with  moisture,  that 
percolates  and  liquefies  the  ice-bound  tussocks. 
Even  so,  Edith,  frozen  with  jealous  hate  for  Eliza- 
beth, melted  at  the  words  the  truth  of  which  it  was 
impossible  to  doubt,  for  the  nature  of  the  proofs 
he  offered  was  the  guarantee  for  them.  She  had  to 
believe.  And  this  unfreezing  melted  her;  the  crust 
of  her  hardness  was  dissolved,  and  pitiful  impera- 
tive yearnings  welled  up  from  the  very  springs  of 
her,  that  pierced  and  flooded  the  ground  that  had 
been  sealed  to  their  outflow.  As  far  as  her  will  went, 
she  banished  her  bitterness  and  blame  of  Elizabeth ; 
she  was  herself  alone  with  her  lover  and  her  love, 
that  was  more  adamantine  than  this  mere  frozen 
surface  of  hatred  and  jealousy  had  been.  Till  that 
crust  was  dissolved,  the  inner  springs  could  not  flow; 
now  it  was  melted  and  they  flooded  her. 

Her  fan  dropped  unregarded  at  her  feet,  and  she 
clasped  her  hands  together. 

"I  believe  you,"  she  said.  "It  is  you  who — who 
are  responsible.    But  you  don't  ask  me  to  release 


246  ARUNDEL 

you.  That  is  well,  for — for  I  can't  release  you.  You 
can  refuse  to  marry  me,  I  suppose.  A  man  can 
always  do  that  if  he  has  made  a  girl  love  him  and 
has  asked  her  to  marry  him." 

He  did  not  answer,  and  she  went  on  winding  and 
unwinding  her  fingers. 

"You  see  I  love  you,"  she  said,  "and  I  can't  let 
you  go.  And  only  a  few  weeks  ago  you  liked  me 
enough  anyhow  to  want  mc  to  marry  you.  You 
thought  you  would  be  very  well  content  to  live  with 
me  always.  I  think  that  was  about  it.  And  I  felt 
much  the  same  towards  you.  Then  iimnediately, 
when  I  found  you  wanted  me,  I  began  to  love  you. 
And  I  love  you  more  and  more.  Before  that  noth- 
ing in  the  world  had  meant  anything  to  me.  Even 
if  you  asked  me  to  let  you  go,  I  could  not." 

Still  he  said  nothing,  and  she  came  up  close  to 
him,  treading  on  her  fan  and  breakhig  the  ivory 
sticks  of  it. 

"It  would  he  simply  impossible  for  me,"  she  said. 
"Do  you  tliink  that  by  my  own  act  I  could  give  you 
up,  and  let  you  marry  Elizabeth — as  I  suppose  you 
would  do?" 

She  pointed  through  the  open  window  at  his 
house  next  door. 

"Could  I  see  you  living  there  with  her?"  she 
asked.  "Hear  the  gate  clang  as  you  went  in  on  your 
return  in  the  evening?  See  the  lights  lit  in  the 
house  and  quenched  again  at  night,  and  know  you 
were  there  with  her,  and  that  I  had  permitted  it? 
Never,  never!  You  can  refuse  to  marry  me,  if  you 
will;  that  is  your  affair.  But  don't,  Edward,  don't!" 
and  her  voice  broke. 

He  felt  utterly  humiliated  by  her  sudden  entreaty. 
It  was  pitiful,  it  was  intolerable  that  she  whom  he 
had  sought  light-heartedly  with  a  view  to  comfort 
and  quiet  happmess  and  domestic  peace  should 


EDWARD'S  RETURN  247 

abase  herself  to  him,  asking  that  he  should  not 
withdraw  so  paltry  a  gift.  He  had  known  and  liked 
and  admired  her  for  years,  and  had  offered  her,  not 
knowing  how  cheap  and  shabby  was  his  devotion, 
what  was  wholly  unworthy  of  her  acceptance.  In 
return  now  she  gave  him  unreservedly  all  she  had, 
all  she  was  capable  of,  only  asking  that  his  rubbish 
should  not  be  taken  from  her. 

And  now  as  he  sat  there,  full  of  cold  pity  for  her, 
full  of  scorn  for  himself  that  he  should  give  her 
pity  and  be  unable  to  give  her  warmth,  she  knelt  to 
him,  clasping  his  knees.  And  her  beseeching,  so 
grovelling,  so  abandoned,  seemed  only  to  degrade 
him.  Knowing  now  that  he  knew  what  love  was, 
how  royal  was  the  gift  she  brought  him,  he  saw 
himself  bankrupt  and  abject,  receiving  the  supplica- 
tions of  some  noble  petitioner. 

With  streaming  eyes  and  voice  that  choked  she 
besought  him. 

"Just  give  me  what  you  can,  my  darling,"  she 
said,  "and  oh,  how  content  I  will  be!  It  is  so  short 
a  time  ago  that  you  thought  I  could  make  you 
happy,  and  I  can — believe  me,  I  can.  I  was  not 
worthy  when  you  asked  me  first,  but  I  have  learned 
so  much  since  I  began  to  love  you,  and  I  am  worthier 
now.  You  have  always  liked  me,  we  have  always 
been  good  friends,  and  you  will  get  over  this  sud- 
den infatuation  for  Elizabeth.  I  will  be  so  good 
about  that;  I  won't  be  jealous  of  her.  It  wasn't 
your  fault  that  you  fell  in  love  wdth  her;  I  will  never 
reproach  you  for  it.  We  shall  be  so  happy  together 
very  soon;  she  will  go  back  to  India  and  you  will 
forget.    I  will  do  anything  except  give  you  up ! " 

Once  or  twice  he  had  tried  to  interrupt  her,  but 
she  swept  his  words  away  in  the  torrent  of  her 
entreaties.  But  here  for  a  moment  her  voice  ut- 
terly choked,  and  he  put  his  arm  round  her,  raising 


248  ARUNDEL 

her,  dragging  her  from  her  knees.  Weeping  hys- 
terically, she  clung  to  him,  burying  her  face  on  his 
shoulder,  and  all  the  tenderness  and  kindliness  in  his 
nature  came  to  him. 

"My  dear,  don't  talk  like  that,"  he  said,  sooth- 
ing her,  "and  don't  ciy  like  that.  Dry  your  eyes, 
Edith ;  there  is  nothing  to  cry  about." 

"Tell  me,  then,"  she  sobbed,  "what  are  you  going 
to  do  with  me?" 

Still  with  his  arm  about  her  he  led  her  across  the 
room  to  the  sofa  where,  half  an  hour  ago,  Elizabeth 
had  fallen.  There  was  no  possibility  of  choice  left 
him,  and  he  saw  that  clearly  enough.  He  could  not 
break  a  promise  made  to  one  who  loved  him.  the 
strength  of  whose  love  he  had  not  even  conjectured 
before.  Undemonstrative  and  reticent  by  nature, 
Edith  had  never  yet  shown  him  her  heart,  nor  had 
he  known  how  completely  it  was  his.  There  was  no 
struggle  any  more;  there  was  left  to  him  only  the 
self-humiliating  task  of  comforting  her. 

"God  knows  I  will  give  you  all  I  can,"  he  said.  "I 
will  do  my  best  to  make  you  happy.  But,  my  dear, 
don't  humiliate  me  any  more.  I  know  that  you  are 
givmg  me  all  a  woman  can  give  a  man.  And  it  is 
sweet  of  you  to  forgive  me;  I  don't  deserve  to  be 
forgiven.  There,  dry  your  eyes.  Let  me  dry  them 
for  you.  Never,  never,  I  hope,  will  you  cry  again 
because  of  me." 

Edith's  sobbing  had  ceased,  and  with  a  woman's 
instinct  she  began  to  repair  with  deft  fingers  the 
little  disorder  of  her  dress. 

"Oh,  I  will  love  you  so,  my  darling!"  she  whis- 
pered. "We  shall  be  happy;  I  know  we  shall  be 
happy.  And  when  I  give  you  the  best  gift  of  all, 
when  I  give  you  a  child,  and  another  child  ..." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  he  said.  "And  how  their  gran- 
nie will  love  them!" 


EDWARD'S  RETURN  249 

She  shrank  away  from  him  a  moment  at  this.  He 
had  said  anything  that  might  comfort  and  quiet  her, 
which  came  to  his  tongue. 

"And  how  we  shall  love  them!"  he  added  quickly. 
"There,  you  look  more  yourself." 

Still  leaning  on  him,  as  if  loth  to  let  him  go,  she 
turned  her  tear-stained  face  round  to  the  mirror 
above  the  sofa. 

"Ah,  but  what  a  fright!"  she  said.  "I  shall  just 
go  and  wash  my  face  and  then  come  back  to  you. 
Mother  will  be  in  any  minute  now.  And  I  shall 
look  into  Elizabeth's  room,  shall  I  not?  She — she 
said  she  wanted  to  know." 

The  sounds  of  the  arrival  of  the  motor  hastened 
her  departure  upstairs,  and  next  moment  IMrs.  Han- 
cock came  in. 

"Well,  it  is  nice  to  see  you,  my  dear!"  she  said. 
"But  I  can't  say  it's  a  surprise,  for  I  told  Edith  I 
was  sure  you  would  look  in.  But  where's  Edith? 
And  where's  Elizabeth?" 

Edward  shook  hands. 

"Elizabeth  went  to  bed  half  an  hour  ago,"  he  said. 
"She  was  not  feeling  very  well.  Edith  has  just  gone 
upstairs.  She  was  going  to  look  in  and  see  how  she 
was." 

Mrs.  Hancock  sat  down  to  her  patience-table.  She 
always  played  patience  when  she  had  been  to  a 
party,  to  calm  herself  after  the  excitement. 

"Isn't  that  like  my  darling  Edith!"  she  said.  "For- 
getting all  about  her  ankle,  I'll  be  bound,  and  even 
about  you,  though  you  mustn't  scold  her  for  it.  She 
will  have  told  you  that  her  ankle  began  to  pain  her. 
Fancy!  There  is  a  second  king  already.  Ring  the 
bell,  dear  Edward,  I  must  have  a  little  lemonade, 
and  no  doubt  you  would  like  a  whisky  and  soda. 
Another  ace — how  provoking!" 

Mrs.  Hancock  had  a  tremendous  belief  in  her  own 


250  ARUXDEL 

perspicacity,  and,  looking  at  the  young  man,  came 
to  the  very  distinct  conclusion  that  something  had 
happened.  His  voice  sounded  rather  odd,  too. 
Simultaneously  she  caught  sight  of  the  wreck  of 
Edith's  fan  on  the  floor.  Her  remarkable  powers 
of  imagination  instantly  enabled  her  to  connect  this 
deplorable  accident^ — for  Edith  was  usually  so  care- 
ful— with  wliatever  it  was  tliat  had  hajipened.  Per- 
haps there  had  been  a  little  tiff  over  Edward's  long- 
continued  absence.  She  summoned  up  all  her  tact 
and  all  her  optimism. 

"Why,  if  that  isn't  Edith's  fan!"  she  said.  "She 
must  have  dropperl  it  and  stepped  on  it.  Or  it 
would  be  more  like  Elizabeth  to  step  on  it.  And 
what  a  long  time  you  have  been  away.  Edith  was 
almost  disposed  to  l)lanie  you  for  that,  until  she 
and  I  had  a  good  talk  together.  I  told  lier  it  would 
never  do  for  j^ou  to  neglect  either  your  business  or 
your  friends.  Once  Mr.  Hancock  was  away  from 
me  for  a  month,  when  there  was  either  a  slump  or  a 
boom  in  the  markets.  Dear  me.  how  the  old  words 
come  back  to  one.  though  I'm  sure  I  forget  what 
they  mean!  Has  it  been  a  slump  or  a  boom,  deaf 
Edward,  all  tliis  last  fortnight?" 

"Oh.  everything  has  been  pretty  quiet,"  said  he 
absently.  He  could  barely  focus  his  attention 
enough  on  what  she  was  saying  to  unrlerstand  her. 
Upstairs  Edith  had  gone  in  to  see  Elizabeth — to  tell 
her  what  had  happened 

"I  see,"  said  Mrs.  Hancock,  with  great  cordiality. 
"And  so  you  have  had  to  watch  things  verj^  care- 
fully. Such  a  pleasant  dinner  at  ]\Ir.  ^Martin's,  and 
a  great  deal  of  wise  and  witty  talk.  And  I  have 
such  a  lovely  plan  for  Elizabeth,  which  I  shall  tell 
her  about  to-morrow,  so  there's  no  reason  why  I 
should  not  tell  you  now.  I  mean  to  let  her  stay  with 
me  after  you  have  taken  my  darling  away,  all  Octo- 


EDWARD'S   RETURN  251 

ber  and  November,  and  come  with  me  to  Egypt,  so 
that  we  shall  all  meet  again,  our  happy  little  party. 
I  have  just  heard  from  her  father,  who,  of  course, 
will  pay  for  her  travelling  expenses,  and  he  is  quite 
agreeable,  if  Elizabeth  likes.  I  quite  look  forward 
to  telling  her;  she  will  go  mad  with  joy,  I  think,  for 
imagine  a  girl  seeing  Egypt  at  her  age!  I  am  very 
fond  of  Elizabeth;  she  is  lively  and  cheerful,  though 
I  think  she  has  felt  the  heat  this  last  fortnight.  So 
affectionate,  is  she  not?  And  I'm  not  sure  she 
doesn't  like  her  Cousin  Edward  best  of  all  of  us." 

This  amazing  display  of  tactful  conversation,  de- 
signed to  take  Edward's  mind  off  any  little  tiff  that 
he  might  have  had  with  Edith,  demanded  some 
kind  of  appreciation  from  him. 

"I  should  be  delighted  to  know  that  Elizabeth 
liked  me,''  he  said. 

"You  may  be  sure  she  does.  Such  a  common  in- 
terest you  have,  too,  in  music.  Ah!  here  is  Edith; 
and  my  patience  is  coming  out  in  spite  of  that  hor- 
rid ace  which  blocked  me  so  long.  We  were  talking 
about  Elizabeth,  dear,  and  I  was  telling  Edward 
how  fond  she  is  of  him." 

The  poor  lady  had  touched  the  limit  of  his  en- 
durance. 

"I  think  I  must  be  getting  to  bed,"  he  said. 

"Not  wait  and  chat  while  I  have  my  lemonade? 
Well,  dear,  it  is  nice  to  see  you  again,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  that  Edith  will  see  you  out,  and  lock  the  door 
after  you,  so  that  I  need  not  ring  for  Lind  again. 
Edith,  my  darling,  your  fan!  Who  could  have 
stepped  on  it?  Was  it  Elizabeth?  And  has  your 
ankle  ceased  to  pain  you?" 

Edward  followed  Edith  out  into  the  hall.  There 
was  no  repressing  his  anxiety  to  know. 

"Did  you  see  her?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.    Oh,  Edward,  I  have  been  wronging  Eliza- 


252  ARUNDEL 

beth  so.  And  I  am  sorry.  She  told  me  she  didn't 
care  for  you,  not  one  scrap.  It — it  had  never  en- 
tered her  head.  I  asked  her  forgiveness  for  having 
had  such  dreadful  thoughts  about  her.  I  don't  know 
how  I  thought  so.  It  has  made  me  quite  happy. 
You  see,  she  never  tliought  of  you.  And  she  kissed 
me  and  forgave  me." 

She  lifted  her  face  to  his. 

"She  told  me  to  tell  you."  she  said.    ''She " 

Edward  kissed  her  quickly  and  stepped  out  into 
the  black,  cloud-shadowed  night. 


CHAPTER   XI 

THE  TELEGRAM 

Mrs.  Hancock  was  distinctly  aware  when,  three 
days  afterwards,  she  started  in  her  motor  for  a  drive 
with  Elizabeth,  that  in  order  to  live  worthily  up  to 
Mr.  Martin's  pattern  of  the  thankful,  cheerful  Chris- 
tian life,  she  had  to  keep  a  very  firm  hand  on  her- 
self and  nail  her  smile  to  her  pleasant  mouth.  In- 
deed, for  these  last  few  days  she  had  to  set  before 
herself  an  ideal  not  of  cheerful,  but  of  grinning 
Christianity.  Like  a  prudent  manager,  however, 
she  had  steadfastly  saved  up  as  an  all-conquering 
antidote  to  the  depression  and  queerness  which 
was  so  marked  in  Elizabeth,  her  joyful  plan  that 
should  give  the  girl  a  month  more  of  Heath  moor 
and  her  own  undivided  society  and  a  reunited  tour 
in  Egypt  afterwards  at  Colonel  Fanshawe's  expense. 
The  prospect  of  that,  she  felt  sure,  could  not  pos- 
sibly fail  to  restore  to  Elizabeth  her  accustomed 
exhilaration  and  liveliness. 

Meantime  Mrs.  Hancock  had  carefully  forborne 
to  ask  either  of  the  girls  (for  Edith  also  had  ex- 
hibited symptoms  of  queerness)  what  was  ailing 
with  the  serenity  of  life.  It  fitted  in  with  the  cheer- 
ful gospel  to  know  as  little  as  possible  about  worry- 
ing and  annoying  topics,  lest  their  infection  should 
mar  the  soothing  and  uplifting  influence  over  others 
of  a  mind  wholly  untroubled.  Two  inquiries  only 
had  she  made  (and  those  were  from  Edward),  which 
elicited  the  comfortable  fact  that  the  event  of  the 

253 


254  ARUNDEL 

8th  of  October  still  remained  firm,  and  that  he  had 
not  lost  any  money  in  the  City.  After  that  she 
firmly  shut  her  eyes  to  any  possible  cause  of  trouble, 
and  though  one  (and  that  the  correct  one)  actually 
stood  immediately  in  the  foreground  of  her  mental 
vision,  she  by  long  practice  in  nberlience  to  Mr.  Mar- 
tin's gospel  had  reached  a  pitch  of  absolute  perfec- 
tion in  the  feat  of  mental  eye-closing,  even  as  a 
child  frightened  by  the  dark  can  by  an  effort  of  will 
shut  out  terrifying  possibilities  by  the  corresponding 
physical  feat,  or  firmly  bury  its  head  under  the  bed- 
clothes. 

But  her  victory  over  these  subtle  influences  of 
gloom  and  general  oddity  had  not  been  gamed  with- 
out effort.  It  had  been  tlistinctly  hard  to  maintain 
an  equable  cheerfulness  with  Elizabeth.  Sometimes 
for  a  little  the  girl  was  quite  herself  with  a  short- 
lived flood  of  high-spirited  talk;  sometimes  from 
her  sitting-room  Mrs.  Hancock  would  hear  a  flight 
of  brilliant  song-birds  on  the  piano.  But  then  sud- 
denly the  flood  would  cease  from  pouring,  and  the 
flight  fail  in  mid-air.  Once  just  after  a  silence  had 
fallen  on  the  ringing  air  she  had  come  into  the  draw- 
ing-room to  find  Elizabeth  sitting  with  her  hands 
still  resting  on  the  keys,  and  her  head  bowed  for- 
ward over  them.  Her  assertion  that  she  was  not  ill 
carried  conviction;  her  denial  that  anything  was 
the  matter  was  less  easy  of  belief.  But  she  said  it, 
and  since  successful  inquiry  might  lead  to  disturbing 
information.  Mrs.  Hancock  fell  back  on  the  unim- 
peachable general  duty  of  trusting  everybody  com- 
pletely and  in  particular  of  believing  what  Elizabeth 
said. 

But  it  required  an  effort  to  remain  perfectly  com- 
fortable, for  she  was  surrounded  with  people  who 
did  not  appear  to  be  so,  and  Edward,  so  it  seemed 
to  her,  though  he  had  lost  no  money  and  was  going 


THE  TELEGRAJVI  255 

to  marry  Edith  on  the  8th  of  October,  seemed  to 
have  been  drawn  into  what  she  looked  upon  as  a 
vicious  circle — vicious  since  it  was  wrong,  positively 
wrong,  not  to  be  happy  and  comfortable.  She  was 
not  quick  or  discerning  in  the  interpretation  of 
symptoms,  nor,  indeed,  when  she  suspected  that 
anything  was  amiss,  quick  to  see  symptoms  at  all. 
But  through  her  closed  eyelids,  so  to  speak,  there 
filtered  the  fact  that  Elizabeth  altogether  avoided 
looking  at  Edward,  but  that  he  observed  her  with 
furtive,  eager  glances,  that  somehow  seemed  dis- 
appointed in  what  they  sought.  Also,  though  Eliza- 
beth took  spasmodic  and  violent  spells  at  the  piano, 
she  never  played  in  the  evening  when  Edward  was 
there,  but  had  evinced  a  sudden  desire  to  learn 
the  new  patience  which  ]\Irs.  Hancock  had  found 
in  a  ladies'  paper.  Mrs.  Hancock  did  not  so  much 
wonder  at  that,  for  this  particular  mode  of  killing 
time  was  undoubtedly  of  thrilling  interest,  and  she 
almost  thought  of  buying  Elizabeth  a  little  patience- 
table  for  her  birthday,  which  occurred  in  October. 
She  intended  in  any  case  to  look  out  the  article 
in  question  in  the  catalogue  from  the  stores  and 
see  how  much  it  cost.  There  would  be  no  harm  in 
that,  and  if  it  cost  more  than  she  felt  she  could  man- 
age, why,  there  would  be  no  necessity  to  say  any- 
thing about  it.  But  then  an  admirable  notion  struck 
her — her  own  table  was  getting  a  little  rickety;  it 
shook  when  she  put  cards  down  on  to  it.  Also  it 
was  rather  small  for  the  great  four-pack  "King  of 
Mexico,"  which  she  had  fully  determined  to  learn 
this  autumn.  So  Elizabeth  should  have  her  old 
table,  and  she  would  get  a  new  one  of  size  No.  1 
(bevelled  edges  and  adjustable  top).  That  it  was 
even  more  expensive  did  not  trouble  her,  and  she 
impressively  told  herself  that  she  would  not  have 
dreamed  of  buying  it  had  it  not  been  that  she 


256  ARUNDEL 

wanted  to  ^ive  dear  Elizabeth  a  present.  In  fact, 
though  she  bought  it  ap])arcntly  for  herself  it  was 
really  Elizabeth  for  whom  this  great  expense  was 
incurred.  And  all  these  rich  and  refreshing  rewards 
— namely,  another  month  at  Heathmoor,  instead  of 
the  cobras  and  deserts  of  India,  a  tour  in  Eg>'pt, 
and  the  most  expensive  patience-table  at  the  stores 
— she  would  announce  to  her  fortunate  niece  as  they 
went  round  by  the  Old  Mill.  How  all  the  look  of 
trouble  and  depression  would  fade  from  dear  Eliza- 
beth's face  as  she  listened  to  the  announcement  of 
those  delicious  joys,  one  after  the  other.  Mrs.  Han- 
cock felt  a  sudden  gush  of  thankfulness  to  the  kind 
disposition  of  Providence  that  had  elidowed  her 
with  the  ample  income  which  she  was  so  eager  to 
spend  in  securing  the  happiness  of  others;  and  even 
while,  without  self-conscious  commonplace,  she  felt 
herself  blessed  in  such  opportunities  and  the  will 
to  take  advantage  of  them,  she  could  not  help  feel- 
ing how  true  it  was  that  kindness  and  thought  for 
others  is  so  laden  with  gain  for  oneself.  For  she 
herself  would  have  a  new  patience-table  (size  No. 
1,  with  bevelled  edges),  a  delightful  companion 
throughout  October,  after  Edith  had  left  her,  while 
Elizabeth's  father  would  pay  her  expenses  in  Egypt. 
She  could  not  help  feeling  also  how  much  more 
Christian  and  how  nnich  more  Martinesque  it  was 
to  stifle,  smother,  and  destroy  whatever  might  be 
the  cause  of  Ehzabeth's  trouble  by  this  perfect 
shower  of  causes  for  happiness,  rather  than  inquire 
into  it  and  thus  run  the  risk  of  being  herself  un- 
settled and  made  uneasy.  But  it  had  certainly  re- 
quired an  efi"ort;  she  had  to  put  firmly  out  of  her 
mind  not  only  Elizabeth's  possible  worries,  but  also 
the  remembrance  of  the  evening  when  she  had  come 
back  from  dinner  with  the  Martins,  and  thought 
Edward's  voice  had  sounded  odd,  and  seen  Edith's 


THE  TELEGRAM  257 

fan  lying  broken  on  the  floor.  That  had  never  been 
explained.  Edith  had  said  subsequently  that  she 
supposed  she  must  have  stepped  on  it,  but  it  was 
very  odd  she  should  not  have  noticed  it,  for  the 
breaking  of  all  those  ivory  sticks  must  have  made 
quite  a  loud  snap.  Meantime  the  gong  tliat  heralded 
the  arrival  of  the  motor  had  sounded  quite  two 
minutes  and  Elizabeth  had  not  yet  appeared.  Mrs. 
Hancock  thought  she  would  just  speak  to  her  on 
the  subject  of  punctuality,  and  then  wipe  all  im- 
pression of  blame  away  by  the  recital  of  these 
prospective  benefits.  Elizabeth  was  not  downstairs, 
and  it  was  just  possible  that  she  had  not  heard  the 
gong;  Lind  was  told  to  sound  it  again. 

Elizabeth  heard  it  the  second  time  that  it  boomed, 
and  rose  from  where  she  knelt  by  her  bed,  by  the 
side  of  which  five  minutes  ago  she  had  flung  her- 
self, following,  so  it  seemed  to  her,  some  blind  in- 
stinctive impulse.  That  morning  there  had  broken 
over  her  a  storm  of  rayless  despair.  For  a  couple 
of  days  after  her  final  rejection  of  Edward,  when 
Edith's  absolute  determination  not  to  give  him  up 
voluntarily  had  been  known  to  her,  the  apathetic 
quiet  of  the  step  taken,  of  deliberate  renunciation, 
had  been  hers.  But  it  had  not  been,  and  the  poor 
girl  guessed  it,  the  peace  that  is  always  eventually 
not  only  the  reward  but  the  consequence  of  self- 
abnegation,  but  only  the  exhaustion  that  follows  a 
prolonged  mental  effort.  Edith's  choice,  apart  from 
the  tremendous  significance  it  had  for  herself,  w^as 
incredible  and  monstrous  to  her  nature.  She  did 
not  question  the  fact  that  Edith  loved  Edward,  but 
the  notion  of  love  not  seeking  the  happiness  of 
the  beloved  was  to  her  inconceivable.  She  could 
not  understand  it,  could  not  in  consequence  have 
the  smallest  sympathy  with  it.  But  this  she  had 
to  take  and  did  take  on  trust,  and  let  depend  on  it 


258  ARUNDEL 

her  own  unalterable  decision — that  decision  that,  as 
far  as  she  could  see,  took  the  sun  bodily  out  of  her 
own  life.  From  mere  weariness  slie  hatl  found  in  the 
dull  acquiescence  in  this  an  apathy  that  had  for  a 
couple  of  days  ana?sthetized  her.  Af^ainst  this  insen- 
sitiveness.  knowing  that  it  was  valueless,  she  had 
made  pitiful  little  struggles,  seeking  now  to  estab- 
lish sonic  kind  of  sympathy  anrl  renewal  of  intimacy 
with  her  cousin,  now  to  rouse  herself  to  feel  in 
music  the  passion  with  which  it  had  inspired  lier. 
Instead,  for  the  present,  she  found  she  had  a  shrink- 
ing abhorrence  of  it.  Its  beauty  had  become  re- 
mote, and  from  its  withdrawn  eminence,  its  unas- 
sailable snow-peaks,  it  mocked  her.  It  did  more 
than  mock;  it  reminded  her  of  all  it  liad  done  for 
her,  how  through  it  she  and  E(hvard  had  been 
brought  together,  to  stand  now  close  to  each  other, 
embracing,  overlapping,  yet  with  a  tliin,  unmeltable 
ice  l)etween  tliem. 

Then  in  due  course  had  come  the  recuperation 
of  her  vital  forces,  and  she  had  awoke  this 
morning  after  long  and  (h-eamless  sleep  to  find  that 
the  ana?sthesia  of  her  mind  had  passed  off.  For 
a  couple  of  minutes  perhaps  she  had  lain  still  in 
the  delicious  consciousness  of  restored  vigour,  and 
of  delight  in  the  new  freshness  of  the  early  day. 
Then  as  she  became  fully  conscious  of  herself 
again,  she  found  that  what  had  been  recuperated 
in  her  was  but  her  capacity  for  suffering,  and  the 
blackness  of  a  vivid  despair,  bright  black,  not  dull 
black,  fell  on  her,  more  black  because  she  knew  that 
it  was  a  darkness  of  her  own  making.  A  word 
from  her  to  Echvard  would  scatter  it  and  let  loose 
the  morning.  She  had  no  doubt  of  that,  no  doubt 
that  he,  at  her  bidding,  would  break  the  fetters  of 
his  promise  that  bound  him  as  easily  as  if  they  had 
been  but  a  wisp  of  unwoven  straw.    She  told  her- 


THE  TELEGRAM  259 

self  and,  what  was  the  more  persuasive,  she  could 
hear  his  voice  telling  her  that  she  was  committing 
a  crime  against  love,  that  she  was  refusing  and  bid- 
ding him  profane  the  most  sacred  gift  of  all.  She 
told  herself  that  she  was  a  fool  to  listen  to  any 
voice  but  that  which  sounded  so  insistently,  but 
there  was  yet  a  voice,  still  and  small,  that  was 
steadfast  in  its  message  to  her.  It  was  not  that  she 
cared  one  jot  for  the  ordinary  external  consequences 
of  a  disobedience  to  that;  she  guessed  that  there 
would  be  a  consensus  of  opinion  in  her  favour  if 
she  disobeyed.  No  doubt  they  would  say  it  was 
a  deplorable  accident  that  she  and  Edward  had 
fallen  in  love  with  each  other,  but  once  the  acci- 
dent had  happened  it  was  best  to  make  the  best 
of  a  regrettable  situation.  The  young  man  had 
never  been  in  love  with  poor  Edith;  he  had  but 
fallen  a  lukewarm  victim  to  the  influence  of  pro- 
pin-quity  and  Mrs.  Hancock.  Certainly  it  was  very 
sad  for  Miss  Hancock,  but  she  was  young,  she  would 
get  over  it,  and  probably  end  by  making  quite  a 
good  marriage. 

Elizabeth  cared  little  for  either  the  approval  or 
condemnation  of  the  world  in  general.  The  thought 
of  it  was  remote  and  stifled  and  insignificant.  But 
it  was  Edward  who  called  to  her,  called  loud,  called 
closely  and  low,  and  she  must  be  deaf  not  to  listen 
to  him,  not  hear  him  even.  At  whatever  cost  she 
had  to  approve  of  herself. 

Black,  empty  aching,  an  intolerable  loneliness. 
She  had  but  one  desire,  apart  from  the  desire  of 
her  heart,  and  that  was  to  escape  from  it  all,  to  go 
away  as  quickly  as  possible,  to  be  out  of  sight  of 
w^hat  she  might  not  contemplate.  Far  away,  across 
leagues  of  hot  ocean  and  miles  of  plain  baking  from 
the  summer  solstice,  was  her  father.  No  one  else 
in  the  world  did  she  want  to  see,  to  no  one  else — if 


260  ARUNDEL 

even  to  him — could  she  pour  out  her  woe.  He  would 
comprehend,  would  approve,  she  knew,  of  all  she 
had  rlone.  not  blaniinu;  her  for  letting  love  so  com- 
pletely envelop  her.  not  praising  her  rejection  of 
it,  but  simply  seeing  even  as  she  had  seen,  in  lone- 
liness and  heart's  anguish,  that  there  was  no  other 
course  possible.  Slie  knew  that  as  thoroughly  as  if 
she  had  already  opened  her  whole  heart  to  him. 

There  was  a  letter  already  written  which  she 
had  not  yet  posted;  now  she  opened  it  and  added 
a  postscript:  "Father,  dear,"  she  wrote,  "I  am 
awfully — awfully  unhappy,  and  can't  write  to  you 
about  it.  Hut  when  you  get  this,  please  send  me 
a  telegram  saying  you  want  me  home  af  once.  Trust 
me  that  this  is  wiser.    Don't  delay,  dear  (hiddy." 

The  pen  dropped  from  her  fingers  after  she  had 
re-directed  her  letter,  and  she  sat  quite  still  look- 
ing blankly  at  it.  She  had  told  Edith  she  d'u\  not 
love  Edward,  that  she  had  never  thought  of  him 
like  that.  If  there  could  be  degrees  in  this  abject 
wretchedness,  hers  was  a  depth  unplumbable.  Yet 
this  colossal  lie  seemed  to  her  necessary.  Edith, 
believing  that  her  cousin  loved  Edward,  yet  refused 
to  release  him  of  her  own  will.  So  she  was  to  have 
him,  she  nmst  be  given  what  was  already  hers,  hand- 
somely, largely.  It  would  be  wicked,  even  at  the 
cost  of  this  denial,  to  give  him  her  with  a  stab,  so 
to  speak. 

Emptiness,  utter  loneliness  self-ordained.  She 
must  tell  somebody  about  her  misery;  she  must 
pour  out  her  unshared  grief,  for  the  burden  of  it 
was  intolerable.  With  dry  blind  eyes,  with  the 
groping  instuict  to  seek,  just  to  seek,  she  threw 
herself  on  her  knees  by  her  bed.  She  knew  not 
what  or  whom  she  sought;  there  was  just  this  blind 
unerring  instinct  in  her  soul,  the  instinct  of  the  hom- 
ing pigeon. 


THE  TELECxRAM  261 

Mrs.  Hancock  put  up  her  parasol  when  the  three 
cushions  were  perfectly  adjusted,  and  the  car  slid 
slowly  forward. 

"I  think  we  shall  have  time  to  go  round  by  the 
Old  Mill,"  she  said,  "though  we  are  a  little  late  in 
starting.  I  wonder,  Elizabeth,  if  you  could  make 
an  effort  to  be  more  punctual,  dear.  I  don't  think 
there  is  a  person  in  the  world  who  Iiates  l^laming 
people  as  much  as  I  do,  so  I  don't  want  or  mean  to 
blame  you.  I  only  ask  you  to  make  a  little  effort. 
It  is  so  easy  to  form  a  habit,  and  while  you  are 
about  it  you  might  just  as  well  form  the  habit  of 
puTictuality  as  of  unpunctuality." 

"I  am  so  sorry,  Aunt  Julia."  said  she.  "I — I 
wasn't  thinking  about  the  time." 

"No,  dear,  that  is  just  it.  I  want  you  to  think 
about  the  time  a  little  more.  There  is  just  a  little 
touch  of  selfishness  and  inconsiderateness  in  keep- 
ing other  people  waiting,  and  selfishness  is  so  horri- 
ble, is  it  not?  Edith  is  never  unpunctual,  though 
all  the  time  her  ankle  was  bad  she  got  downstairs 
very  slowly.  But  she  allowed  for  that.  What  was 
the  engrossing  employment  to-day  that  kept  you?" 

"I  was  saying  my  prayers,  Aunt  JuUa.  At  least, 
I  was  trying  to," 

Mrs.  Hancock  laid  her  hand  on  Elizabeth's. 

"My  dear,  that  is  a  very  good  reason,"  she  said, 
"though  I  am  afraid  it  means  that  you  forgot  to  say 
them  when  you  got  up.  It's  a  very  good  plan,  Ehza- 
beth,  to  say  them  the  moment  you  get  out  of  bed. 
Then  they  are  off  your  mind.  Oh,  what  a  beautiful 
fresh  air  there  is  this  morning!  I  think  we  might 
almost  have  my  window  half  down,  and  yours  quite 
down.  Your  prayers,  yes.  And  to  think  that  when 
you  came  you  didn't  want  to  go  to  church  at  all. 
But  I  felt  sure  that  Mr.  Martin — why,  there  he  is, 
do  you  see,  in  a  red  coat,  playing  golf?     Fancy, 


262  ARUNDEL 

what  a  coincidence!  He  is  dining  with  us  to-night, 
and  I  must  be  sure  to  tell  him  that  we  saw  him  just 
the  very  moment  that  I  was  speaking  of  him.  But 
the  only  way  to  get  tlirough  the  tlay's  work  is  to  do 
everything  punctually,  prayers  and  all.  Then  when 
l)e(ltime  comes  you  are  ready  for  it.  with  nothing 
left  untlone  to  keep  you  awake.  And  now,  my  dear, 
I  have  a  great  deal  to  tell  you,  and  I'm  sure  I  look 
forward  to  doing  so.  It  is  almost  as  great  a  pleasure 
to  me  as  it  will  he  to  you  to  hear  about  all  the  plans 
I  have  made  for  you." 

Mrs.  Hancock  had  settled  that  her  climax  was  to 
be  Egypt.  The  patience-table  perhaps  was  the  least 
sensational  of  the  benefits,  and  she  \\*as  going  to 
begin  with  that. 

"I  have  often  noticed  lately,  dear,"  she  said,  "what 
an  interest  you  take  in  my  patience,  so  much  so 
indeed,  Elizal)eth.  that  we've  had  not  a  note  of 
nuisic  in  the  evening  for  a  week  past,  though  I've 
thought  sometimes  that  I  have  seen  Edward  look- 
ing at  the  piano  as  if  he  would  like  to  hear  how  you 
are  getting  on.  Look,  there  is  the  Old  Mill.  Will 
you  tell  Denton  to  stop,  so  that  we  can  enjoy  look- 
ing at  it?  So  I  thought  to  myself  the  other  night, 
or  perhaps  a  little  bird  whispered  it  to  me,  that  you 
would  like  to  play  patience,  too,  in  the  evening. 
And  so  you  shall,  dear.  You  shall  have  my  patience- 
table  all  for  your  very  own.  and  I  will  get  another 
one  for  myself.  Mind,  Elizabeth,  it  is  not  lent  you 
to  use  only  as  you  use  the  other  things  in  the  house, 
but  it  is  quite  yours,  the  moment  my  other  table 
comes  from  the  stores.  You  may  take  it  back  to 
India  if  you  wish,  when  you  go.    When  you  go." 

"Oh.  that  is  kind,  dear  Aunt  Julia,"  said  the  girl. 
"But  why  should  you  give  it  me,  and  go  to  the 
expense  of  a  new  one?  I  enjoy  seeing  you  play  just 
as  much  as  I  should  enjoy  playing  myself." 


I 


THE  TELEGRAM  263 

Mrs.  Hancock  wondered  if  this  was  really  true. 
Her  generosity  about  taking  the  table  to  India, 
which  so  neatly  introduced  the  next  topic,  had  been 
an  unpremeditated  flash.  Of  course,  if  Elizabeth 
did  not  want  to  play  patience,  there  was  no  kind  of 
reason  for  getting  a  new  table.  But  luckily  at  this 
moment  she  remembered  "King  of  ^lexico,"  which, 
employing  four  packs,  could  not  be  properly  laid  out 
on  the  table  she  at  present  used. 

"My  dear,  I  am  determined  you  shall  have  a 
table  of  your  own,"  she  said,  "to  take  to  India  with 
you  if  you  wish.  And  perhaps  you  noticed  that  I 
said  'when  you  go,'  and  repeated  it.  That  brings 
me  on  to  my  second  plan.  I  shoukl  enjoy,  dear,  I 
should  really  enjoy  your  stopping  on  here  after 
Edith  and  Edward  are  married;  then  you  will  no 
longer  share  the  little  treats,  like  having  a  drive 
in  my  motor,  with  Edith,  but  you  can  come  out  in 
it  whenever  I  go,  twice  a  day  if  you  like.  And  if 
you  like,  you  shall  have  Edith's  room,  and  I  shall 
make  Mrs.  Williams  and  Lind  and  all  of  them  quite 
understand  that  you  are  to  take  Edith's  place. 
You  shan't  be  a  visitor  any  more.  Arundel  shall 
be  your  English  home." 

"Oh,  Aunt  Julia !"  began  Elizabeth. 

"No;  wait  a  minute.  You  shall  have  all  my 
plans  together.  Here  you  will  be  all  October,  with 
your  own  patience-table,  and  Edith's  room,  until  I 
go  to  Egypt  in  November.  And  then,  and  then, 
my  dear,  you  shall  come  with  me.  I  have  written 
to  your  father,  and  we  have  quite  arranged  it.  You 
will  be  absolutely  one  of  our  party,  and  when  Edith 
and  Edward  join  us,  as  they  will  do  at  Cairo — oh, 
look  at  those  starlings,  what  a  quantity! — when  they 
join  us  at  Cairo  we  will  all  go  up  the  Nile  together 
and  see  everything  there  is  to  be  seen.  How  busy 
we  shall  be,  you  and  I,  all  October,  my  dear,  read- 


264  ARUXDEL 

ing  all  sorts  of  learnofl  hooks;  I  am  sure  you  will 
read  aloud  very  well  with  a  little  practice.  We  shall 
be  quite  a  pair  of  l^luc-stockings  when  we  meet 
Edith  and  Edward  again,  and  be  able  to  toll  them 
all  sorts  of  interesting  things  about  the  Greeks  and 
ancient  Eg>'ptians.  We  will  take  your  patience- 
table  with  us,  for  it  shuts  up  nu)re  conveniently 
than  any  table  I  have  ever  seen,  and  I  dare  say  I 
shall  often  ask  you  for  the  loan  of  it,  if  you  will  \)g 
so  kind  as  to  lend  it  me.  And  then  we  shall  all  come 
down  the  Nile  together,  such  a  happy  party,  and 
I  know  very  well,  dear  Ehzabeth.  that  when  we 
come  to  part,  and  you  go  on  to  India  frqm  wherever 
it  is  tliat  the  l)oats  call,  I  for  one  shall  miss  you  very 
much  indeed." 

Mrs.  Hancock  had  warmed  herself  up  into  the 
most  pleasurable  glow  of  generosity,  and  felt  that 
all  these  wonderful  plans,  which,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  had  been  made  solely  with  a  view  to  her  own 
comfort,  were  entirely  due  to  her  altruistic  desire 
for  Elizabeth's  deliglit.  Her  self-deception  was  com- 
plete and  triumphant;  she  had  for  the  time  quite 
lost  sight  of  the  undouljted  fact  that  she  had  thought 
of  herself  and  herself  only  in  the  making  of  them. 
She  had  secured  an  excuse  for  a  new  patience-table, 
a  companion  during  what  would  have  otherwise 
been  a  month  of  loneliness,  and,  at  no  expense  to 
herself,  of  somebody  who  would  look  after  her  in 
Eg}'pt  and  be  devoted  to  her  comfort.  She  fully 
expected  a  burst  of  gratitude,  a  rapturous  and 
scarcely  credulous  assent  from  the  girl. 

Elizabeth  sat  quite  silent  for  a  moment. 

"Oh,  Aunt  Julia,  it  is  sweet  of  you,"  she  said, 
"but  I  think  it  is  all  quite  impossible.  I  must  go 
back  to  India;  I  must  get  back  to  father." 

Aunt  Julia  still  glowed. 

"My  dear,  your  father  has  made  up  his  mind  to 


THE  TELEGRAM  265 

do  without  you  and  let  you  enjoy  yourself,"  she  said. 
"I  wrote  to  him  about  it,  oh,  weeks  ago,  telling  him 
not  to  allude  to  it  at  all  to  you,  but  that  I  would 
tell  you.  He  will  rejoice  in  your  happiness  as  much 
as  I." 

Elizabeth  clasped  her  hands  together  on  her  knee. 

"Oh,  I  can't,  I  can't!"  she  said.  "But  thank  you 
ever  so  much,  Aunt  Julia.  Indeed,  I  wrote  to  father 
only  to-day,  saying  that  I  wanted  to  come  back  to 
him  quite  soon,  sooner  than  I  had  planned.  I  can't 
explain.  You  have  been  so  kind  to  me,  I  know,  but 
I  must  go  back  to  India  as  soon  as  possible.  Simply 
that." 

Mrs.  Hancock  recognized  the  earnestness  of  the 
girl's  tone,  and  all  the  pleasure  and  glow  faded  from 
her  face. 

"Really,  I  think  your  words  do  require  some  ex- 
planation," she  said.  "To  think  of  me  so  busy  plan- 
ning and  contriving  for  your  pleasure,  and  you  say- 
ing that  you  don't  want  any  of  my  plans!  Yes, 
Denton,  drive  on.  We  have  looked  at  the  Old  Mill 
long  enough.  I  think  you  ought  to  tell  me  what 
it  all  means,  Elizabeth." 

"I  can't  tell  you,"  said  she.  "Try  to  think  it 
means  nothing,  or  that  it  means  only  just  what  I 
have  said.  It  does  mean  that.  I  want  to  go  back 
to  India.  If  it  was  possible  I  would  go  back  to- 
day. I  want  to  see  father.  I  have  been  a  long  time 
away  from  him,  and  though  you  and — and  Edith 
and  Edward  are  so  kind  I  miss  him  dreadfully.  I 
am  homesick ;  I  want  to  get  back." 

Mrs.  Hancock's  own  beautiful  architectural  de- 
signs for  Elizabeth's  happiness  tumbled  in  ruins,  and 
Elizabeth's  notions  of  replacing  them  did  not  seem 
in  the  least  satisfactory.  She  who  avowedly  had 
"planned  and  contrived"  for  this  end  found  her- 
self accusing  the  girl  of  the  most  barefaced  selfish- 


266  ARUNDEL 

ness  when  she  statod  what  she  really  wanted.  Ap- 
parently she  thoup;ht  about  nothing  but  herself. 

"Well,  all  I  can  say  at  present,"  said  Mrs.  Han- 
cock, "is  that  I  am  dreadfully  disappointed  and 
grieved." 

"Yes,  I  am  sorry,"  put  in  Elizabeth,  "but — but  it 
is  quite  impossiljle.  You  mustn't  think  I  am  un- 
grateful, Aunt  Julia." 

"I  do  not  think  you  can  expect  me  to  praise  you 
for  your  gratitude,"  said  Mrs.  Hancock. 

"No.  I  don't  want  praise;  I  don't  deserve  it. 
But  I  want  to  go  back  to  father." 

Mrs.  Hancock's  sense  of  ill-usage,  of  having  her 
kindness  met  by  black  ingratitude,  rankfed  and  grew. 
This  was  worse,  much  worse,  than  the  painful  case 
of  the  housemaid,  who  suited  her  so  well,  going 
away  fi'om  her  ser^'ice  to  be  married.  Indeed,  that 
misguided  creature — the  marriage  did  not  turn  out 
very  haj^pily,  and  Mrs.  Hancock  was  sure  she  didn't 
wonder — the  cause  of  so  many  bitter  momories, 
appeared  now  as  a  perfect  angel  in  comparison. 

"I  must  say  that  I  cannot  consider  this  a  pretty 
return  for  all  the  indulgences  I  have  showered  on 
you."  she  said.  "I  have  treated  you  like  my  own 
daughter,  Elizabeth,  with  the  piano  always  ready 
dusted  for  you,  and  the  most  expensive  motor  al- 
ways whirling  you  about  the  country,  wherever 
you  like  to  go.  and  the  new  table  for  your  patience, 
and  never  a  thing  asked  of  you  in  return  till  I  sug- 
gest that  you  should  keep  me  company  during  Oc- 
tober, and  this  you  flatly  refuse.  And  what  your 
father  will  say  I  don't  know,  with  all  his  kindness 
in  paying  for  your  tour  in  Egj^pt,  when  we  set- 
tled between  us  to  let  you  come  with  me  all  up  the 
Nile,  at  a  great  deal  of  expense.  And  now  all  you 
can  say  is  that  you  don't  want  to  go,  and  can't  ex- 
plain why.     And  here  was  I  thinking  of  ordering 


THE  TELEGRAM  267 

books  on  Eg>'pt  from  the  London  library  this  very 
afternoon,  and  even  planning  going  up  to  London 
some  day  this  week  to  make  sure  of  getting  places 
in  the  sleeping-car  to  Marseilles.  And  you  can't 
explain!" 

Elizabeth  felt  suddenly  goaded  to  exasperation 
at  this  child's  babble  of  books  from  tlie  library  and 
tickets  for  the  sleeping-car.  It  was  round  such 
things  as  these  that  her  aunt's  emotions  clung  like 
swarming  bees  around  their  queen.  She  felt  a  wild 
desire  to  supply  Aunt  Julia  with  something  real  to 
thmk  about,  something  that  would  really  i)ierce 
through  those  coils  of  comfort-padding  that  wrapped 
her  up  as  in  eiderdown  quilts.  At  present  all  that 
ever  reached  her  was  a  slight  disarrangement,  a 
minute  tweaking  of  one  of  her  quilts.  Or  if  by  years 
of  habit  they  were  too  firmly  tucked  round  her,  it 
would  be  somethhig  to  let  her  see  that  others  were 
not  so  grossly  wadded  against  the  world,  against 
reality. 

''I  will  explain  if  you  like,"  she  said  quickly,  and 
almost  smiled  to  see  Aunt  Julia  huddling  her  quilts 
round  her,  clutching  them  with  eager  fingers,  dread- 
ing lest  they  should  be  taken  from  her  by  cruel  and 
inconsiderate  hands. 

"My  dear,  you  haven't  given  me  your  confidence 
voluntarily,"  she  said  in  a  great  hurry,  "and  I  am 
the  last  person  in  the  world  to  ask  for  confidence 
when  it  is  not  freely  given.  Dear  Edith  has  al- 
ways told  me  everything,  but  that  is  no  reason  why 
you  should " 

"Do  you  mean  that  Edith  has  told  you  about 
this?"  asked  the  girl. 

"About  your  inexplicable  rejection  of  all  my  plans 
for  you,  including  the  patience-table?  No,  certainly 
not.     That,  I  imagine,   concerns  you.     My  dear 


268  ARUNDEL 

Edith  would  be  the  last  to  betray  what  seems  to  be 
a  secret " 

Elizabeth  broke  in  again. 

"But  I  am  offering  not  to  make  a  secret  of  it  from 
you,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Hancock  turned  an  almost  imploring  face 
to  her. 

"No,  Elizabeth,"  she  said.  "You  have  not  come 
to  me  with  it  of  your  own  accord,  and  I  was  quite 
wrong  to  hint  that  you  owed  me  an  explanation. 
If  I  have  hinted  so  I  withdraw  it.  Look,  there  is 
Mr.  Beaumont  with  his  butterfly-net.  Let  us  be 
silent  for  a  little  and  collect  ourselves  ^gain;  our 
talk  was  getting  very  wild  and  uncomfortable. 
Would  you  kindly  put  your  window  a  shade  more 
up?" 

Mrs.  Hancock  regarded  the  view  with  a  severe 
and  compressed  face,  into  which  there  stole  by  de- 
grees an  expression  of  relief.  She  felt  that  she  had 
dealt  with  this  threatening  situation  in  an  extremely 
tactful  manner.  Elizabeth  had  not  chosen  to  con- 
fide in  her,  and  she  had  put,  so  she  told  herself, 
all,  all  her  natural  curiosity  aside  and  refused  to 
hear  the  secret  which  had  not  voluntarily  been  made 
known  to  her.  That  waiving  of  her  personal  feel- 
ings in  the  matter  had,  as  usual,  its  immediate 
rewards,  for  she  had  averted  the  risk  of  hearing 
something  thoroughly  uncomfortable.  She  dis- 
missed that  consideration,  and  in  the  silence  for 
which  she  had  asked  devoted  herself  to  the  pained 
contemplation  of  Elizabeth's  selfishness,  which  had 
so  much  surprised  and  grieved  her.  Hitherto  she 
had  not  thought  Elizabeth  at  all  selfish,  except  in 
the  matter  of  unpunctuality,  and  the  discovery  was 
a  great  blow  to  her.  She  had  quite  made  up  her 
mind  that  the  girl  would  jump  at  those  delightful 
proposals,  which  had  been  the  fruit  of  so  much 


THE  TELEGRAM  269 

thought.  About  Egypt  she  did  not  care  so  particu- 
larly, but  she  felt  terribly  blank  at  the  prospect  of 
a  lonely  October.  With  Elizabeth  taking  a  real 
solid  interest  in  patience,  with  the  interval  between 
tea  and  dinner  filled  in  by  readings  about  the  an- 
cient Egyptians,  and  with  a  companion  for  the 
two  daily  motor  drives,  she  had  felt  really  quite  re- 
signed to  losing  Edith,  since  on  their  return  from 
Egypt  she  would  be  living  again  next  door,  and  of 
course  would  be  only  too  delighted  to  enjoy  her 
mother's  companionship  during  Edward's  daily  ab- 
sence in  the  City.  And  now  there  had  come  this 
earthquake,  upsetting  everything.  There  was  a 
proverb  that  misfortunes  never  come  singly,  and 
she  felt  an  indefinable  dread  that  Filson  would  want 
to  marry  next,  or  Mrs.  Williams  threaten  to  leave 
her.  Of  course,  she  could  raise  Mrs.  Williams's 
'wages  again  to  stem  this  tide  of  disaster,  but  if  Fil- 
son wanted  to  marry No  doubt  she  could  try 

the  effect  of  raising  Filson's  wages,  and  could  point 
to  the  awful  fate  of  the  housemaid,  but  even  that 
might  not  prove  sufficient  if  Filson  loved  some  hy- 
pothetical young  man  very  much.  Then  she  tried 
to  cling  to  the  gospel  of  Mr.  Martin,  and  determined 
not  to  dwell  on  these  unnerving  possibilities. 

Meantime,  Elizabeth  sat  silent  (as  requested)  by 
her,  and  the  kmdliness  of  Mrs.  Hancock,  which  ex- 
isted in  large  crude  quantities,  and  her  affection  for 
the  girl,  which  in  its  own  way  was  perfectly  genu- 
ine, came  to  her  aid.  However  startling  and  de- 
plorable Elizabeth's  selfishness  was,  she  was  sorry 
for  whatever  might  be  the  trouble  that  lay  at  the 
root  of  it,  and,  provided  only  that  trouble  was  not 
confided  to  her,  was  willing  and  eager  to  do  her  best 
to  alleviate  it.  Secretly  she  guessed  that  Edward 
was  concerned  in  it ;  she  guessed  also  that  the  girl's 
affections  were  concerned  in  it.    She  rejected  with- 


270  ARUNDEL 

out  diflBculty  that  Elizabeth  had  conceived  a  hope- 
less passion  for  ]\Ir.  Beaumont,  or  an  illicit  one  for 
Mr.  Martin,  and  she  inferred  that  Elizabeth's  affec- 
tions and  Edward  were  synonymous  terms.  But 
that  was  only  a  guess — she  hastened  to  assure  her- 
self of  that — and  mipht  really  be  as  insubstantial  as 
she  hoped  was  tlie  shattering  notion  that  Filson  was 
engaged  in  a  love  affair,  and  she  shut  the  door  on 
it.  There  was  poor  Elizabeth's  trouble  safely  locked 
up,  and  she  wondered  how  she  could  help  her.  She 
turned  to  the  girl. 

"My  dear,  I  am  sure  you  have  some  trouble," 
she  said,  "and,  though  I  would  be  the  last  to  ask 
you  about  it,  is  there  not  anyliody  you  could  con- 
sult? Perhaps  your  wanting  to  go  back  to  your 
father  means  that  you  tliink  he  could  help  you. 
But  is  there  no  one  here?  Could  you  not  tell  Edith, 
if  she  does  not  know  about  it  already?  Or  there  is 
Mr.  Martin.  You  would  finfl  him  all  kindness  and 
wisdom.  I  often  think  of  him  as  my  mind-doctor, 
to  whom  I  would  certainly  go  myself  if  I  was  wor- 
ried." 

"Oh.  thank  you.  Aunt  Julia."  said  she.  "But  I 
don't  think  I  will  worry  Mr.  Martin.  I  should  like 
to  tell  daddy  about  it,  and  I  shall." 

"But  it  would  be  no  worry  for  Mr.  Martin,"  said 
Mrs.  Hancock.  "He  is  so  used  to  hearing  about 
other  people's  troubles.  It  is  quite  his  profession. 
He  has  often  said  to  me  that  his  wash  is  to  bring 
joy  to  pe^ople  and  take  away  their  wretchedness. 
Such  a  noble  career!  I  can't  think  why  they  don't 
make  him  a  bishop." 

Elizabeth  gave  a  little  squeal  of  laughter,  as 
unexpected  to  herself  as  it  was  to  her  aunt. 

"I  don't  thmk  I  will,  really.  Aunt  Julia,"  she  re- 
peated. 

This  appeared  to  Mrs.  Hancock  another  bit  of 


THE  TELEGRAINI  271 

selfishness.  It  seemed  to  her  quite  hkely  that  Mr. 
Martin's  really  magical  touch  might  easily  remove 
Elizabeth's  trouble,  in  which  case  Egypt  and  the 
patience-table  blossomed  again  instead  of  withering 
on  their  stalks.  But  she  determined  not  to  give  it 
all  up  quite  yet  and  abandon  Elizabeth,  so  it  repre- 
sented itself  to  her,  to  the  moral  pit  of  her  selfish- 
ness. 

Mr.  Martin,  who  dined  with  Mrs.  Hancock  that 
evening,  and  spoke  of  Egypt  as  if  it  was  a  newly 
acquired  possession  of  hers,  like  her  motor  or  the 
gate  that  had,  in  spite  of  Edward's  luke-warmness 
on  the  subject,  been  put  into  the  wall  that  separated 
tlie  two  gardens,  trumpeted  her  praise  in  his  usual 
manner. 

"We  shall  miss  you  terribly,"  he  said.  "Heath- 
moor  will  not  be  itself  without  you.  But  still  how 
rjglit  you  are  to  go  and  see  it  all  for  yourself.  You 
take  your  car  with  you?  No?  Then  I  shall  be  down 
on  Denton  and  expect  him  to  stop  for  my  sermon 
every  Sunday  morning,  poor  fellow!  instead  of 
stealing  out  to  bring  your  car  back  for  you.  Poor 
Denton!  Ha.  ha!  He'll  be  glad,  I'll  warrant,  w^hen 
you  come  back  again  and  he  can  shirk  the  padre's 
jaw  as  usual.  An  excellent  fellow,  Denton!  Upon 
my  word,  I  am  sorry  for  him.  I  shall  skip  a  page 
or  two  every  now  and  then  if  Denton  looks  too  re- 
proachfully at  me." 

"Alfred,  Alfred!"  said  his  wife. 

"I  shall  nobble— isn't  it  nobble,  Edward?— I  shall 
nobble  Denton  to  sing  psalms  in  the  choir,"  said 
Mr.  ]\Iartin,  "while  Mrs.  Hancock  is  away.  He 
will  have  no  car  to  take  back  after  she  has  gone 
to  church.  Yes,  yes;  give  Denton  a  dose  of  David 
to  begin  with,  and  Alfred  to  finish  up  with!"  Mr. 
Martin  looked  furtively  round  to  see  if  Lind  w^as 
amused,  and  Mrs.  Martin  put  her  hand  to  her  face. 


272  ARUNDEL 

"Alfred,  Alfred!"  she  said.  "Is  not  Alfred 
naughty!" 

IVIrs.  Hancock  beamed  delightedly.  This  wild 
religious  badinage  always  pleased  her.  It  seemed 
to  make  a  human  thing  of  religion,  to  bring  it  into 
ordinary  life. 

"I  will  leave  Denton  in  your  hands,"  she  said, 
"with  the  utmost  confidence." 

"So  long  as  we  don't  make  a  clergyman  of  him 
before  you  come  back,"  suggested  Mr.  Martin. 
"We  won't  do  that;  there  are  many  mansions,  and 
I'm  sure  that  a  good  fellow  in  his  garage  occupies 
one  of  them.  We  all  have  got  our  mansion,  have 
we  not?  You.  Miss  Elizabeth,  in  yourMnusic,  Ed- 
ward here  in  the  City,  though  he's  a  lucky  fellow 
to  be  sure,  for  he  has  a  musical  mansion  as  well. 
And  we  all  meet;  we  all  meet." 

This  was  a  shade  more  solemn  than  Mr.  Martin's 
usual  dinner-table  conversation,  and  Mrs.  Hancock, 
crumbling  licr  bread  with  dropped  eyes,  saw  here 
a  very  good  gambit  to  open  with  again  in  a  little 
serious  conversation  she  meant,  if  possible,  to  have 
with  him  afterwards.  Then  the  appearance  of  a 
very  particular  salad  roused  her  immediate  atten- 
tion. 

"This  you  must  eat,  Mr.  Martin,"  she  said;  "it 
is  the  new  sort  of  lettuce  which  Ellis  insisted  on  my 
getting.  I  am  told  that  in  Egypt  it  is  quite  unsafe 
to  eat  salad  or  any  raw  vegetable,  for  you  can't  tell 
who  has  been  touching  it,  or  what  sort  of  water  it 
has  been  washed  in.  It's  the  same  in  India,  is  it  not, 
Elizabeth?" 

Mr.  Martin  turned  briskly  to  the  girl. 

"And  why  don't  you  join  your  aunt  in  her  lour  lo 
Egypt?"  he  said.  "It's  all  on  the  way  back  to  India, 
is  it  not?    Why  not  put  Afric's  sunny  fountains  in 


THE  TELEGRAM  273 

before  India's  coral  strands?  Dear  rae,  how  won- 
derful Bishop  Heber's  grasp  is!" 

This  was  indeed  another  coincidence,  that  Mr. 
Martin  should  suggest,  quite  without  consultation, 
the  very  scheme  that  Mrs.  Hancock  had  "planned 
and  contrived."  That  Mr.  Martin  should  think  of 
it  quite  independently,  seemed  to  Mrs.  Hancock  a 
tremendous,  almost  a  religious,  argument  in  its  fa- 
vour. 

"Well,  that  is  odd  now  that  you  should  have  men- 
tioned that,"  she  said,  "for  I  was  proposing  to  Eliza- 
beth only  this  morning  that  she  should  do  that  very 
thing.  And  that  Mr.  Martin  should  agree  with  me! 
Well!" 

Edward  looked  up,  caught  Elizabeth's  eye,  rico- 
cheted, so  to  speak,  on  to  Edith's,  and  returned  in 
time  to  catch  the  drift  of  Mr.  Martin's  further  com- 
ment on  Bishop  Heber.  Mrs.  Hancock  saw  the  sud- 
den colour  flame  in  Elizabeth's  face,  saw  the  glance 
that  played  between  her  three  young  people,  and 
shut  more  firmly  than  ever  the  door  into  which  she 
had  thrust  her  conjecture  on  this  subject.  She  en- 
tirely refused  to  recognize  the  possible  existence  of 
anything  so  very  uncomfortable.  Mr.  Martin  ob- 
served that  his  wife  had  got  well  under  way  again 
with  Bishop  Heber,  and  spoke  confidently  to  his 
hostess. 

"I've  got  schemes  in  my  head,  too,  about  Egypt," 
he  said,  "though  I  don't  know  that  they  will  come 
to  anything.  I  want  to  send  my  dear  Minnie  to  the 
South  for  a  month  or  two  of  the  winter.  You  re- 
member, perhaps,  how  unwell  she  was  last  winter, 
and  what  wonderful  jellies  Mrs.  Williams  sent  her. 
Indeed,  if  I  think  I  can  manage  it,  I  believe  I  shall 
really  have  the  courage  to  suggest  that  she  goes 
out  about  the  same  time  as  you,  so  that  she  won't 
be  quite  alone  in  the  land  of  bondage.    Of  course, 


274  ARUNDEL 

I  don't  for  the  momont  hint  at  hor  aotiially  joining 
your  party.  But  husli,  Mrs.  Hanrock,  wo  are  ob- 
served!   I  have  not  said  a  word  about  it  to  her  yet." 

It  was  impossible  that  Mrs.  Hancock  should  not 
feel  that  ProvidcMice  had  kindly  turiuMJ  his  attention 
to  her  disappointment  about  l']lizal)eth  and  the 
Egyptian  tour.  It  was  true  that  the  even  more  har- 
rowing subject  of  her  lonely  Oct-ober — in  case  Eliza- 
beth persisted  in  her  selfishness — had  not  at  present 
attracted  his  notice,  but  this  suggestion  of  Mr.  Mar- 
tin's seemed  to  her  to  be  a  direct  and  Divine  con- 
trivance for  her  comfort.  She  had  no  wish  to  ex- 
amine into  the  logic  of  her  belief;  she  did  jiot  dream 
of  inquiring  if  she  really  thought  that  Mrs.  Martin 
had  sutTcred  from  bronchitis  last  winter  in  order 
that  her  husband  might  think  of  sending  her  South 
now,  so  that  Mrs.  Hancock  should  have  somel)ody 
to  attend  to  her  in  Eg>'pt.  but  she  felt  that  Eliza- 
beth perhaps  was  not  intended  to  go  to  Egypt,  which 
being  so,  Provirlence,  having  a  special  regarrl  for  her 
comfort,  had  put  forward  this  utterly  unexpected 
idea  to  see  if  she  liked  it.  She  did  like  it.  She  also 
formed  the  conclusion  that  she  on  her  side  was 
meant  not  to  urge  Elizabeth  any  more,  nor  even 
to  see  if  Mr.  Martin  could  not  probe  and  heal  her 
trouble.  It  was  evident  that  her  entire  arrange- 
ments were  being  seen  after  for  her.  But  she  had 
to  meet  this  half-way,  to  acquiesce  thankfully,  and 
help  it  on.    She  turned  beamingly  to  Mr.  Martin. 

"The  very  thing!"  she  said.  "And  as  for  dear 
Mrs.  Martin  not  being  of  our  party,  how  could  you 
suggest  such  an  idea?" 

Some  subject  cognate  to  Bishop  Heber  was  ac- 
tively engaging  Mrs.  Martin,  and  ]Mrs.  Hancock 
could  speak  without  fear  of  being  overheard. 

"She  shall  share  my  sitting-room,  as  my  guest, 
of  course,  and  everything,"  she  said.     "And  after 


THE  TELEGRAM  275 

dinner  you  and  I  must  have  a  couple  of  words  to- 
gether, if  it  is  only  the  question  of  expense  that 
troubles  you.  If  there  is  any  (Ufhculty  there  you 
must  allow  me  to  help.  And  Elizabeth  says,  for 
the  matter  of  that,  that  the  second-class  cabins  on 
the  liners  to  Port  Said  are  every  bit  as  good  as  the 
first." 

This  offer  to  help  was  not  so  precipitate  as  it 
sounded.  Mrs.  Hancock  had  seriously  considered 
during  the  afternoon  wliat  the  expense  of  a  com- 
panion would  be,  and  had  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  if  Elizabeth  would  not  join  her,  she  would  be 
able  to  afford  it.  But  this  providential  idea  would 
save  her  the  greater  part  of  that  expense,  for  no 
doubt,  if  she  could  persuade  Mr.  Martin  to  let  her 
pay  (since  she  would  then  be  saved  the  full  expenses 
of  a  companion)  some  forty  pounds  or  perhaps 
thirty  towards  Mrs.  Martin's  travelling,  his  doubts 
on  the  subject  of  whether  it  could  be  afiforded  would 
be  completely  removed.  She  would  tell  him  that 
she  looked  on  it  as  a  form  of  charity,  which  he  must 
not  be  too  proud  to  accept.  She  was  subscril)ing  to 
Mrs.  Martin's  efficiency  in  parochial  work,  which 
was  a  clear  duty.  Mrs.  Martin  must  be  induced  to 
see  it  in  the  same  light,  and  she  surely  would,  when 
she  saw  that  her  husband  and  Mrs.  Hancock  were 
so  completely  in  accord  on  the  subject.  And  if — 
if  behind  that  locked  door  in  her  mind  there  was 
shut  up  the  true  reason  for  Elizabeth's  unwillingness 
to  go  to  Egypt,  how  wonderfully  it  had  been  con- 
veyed to  her  that  she  must  not  urge  her  any  more. 
That,  of  course,  was  the  most  important  thing  of 
all.  She  must  also  cease  from  accusing  Elizabeth 
in  her  mind  of  any  selfishness.  She  must  dismiss 
it  all  now,  not  even  wonder  whether  it  was  true  or 
not.  Providence  had  locked  the  door  on  it,  and 
indicated,  quite  unmistakably,  that  Elizabeth  was 


276  ARUNDEI. 

not  to  go  to  Egypt.  Providence,  too,  had  caused 
her  pass-book  to  be  returned  to  her  disclosing  a 
very  sound  position;  even  forty  pounds  would  not 
worry  her  at  all.  But  that  was  no  reason  why  she 
should  not  see  whether  thirty  would  not  put  Mr. 
Martin's  mind  at  ease  on  the  question  of  expense. 
She  would  certainly  ask  Elizal)cth  to  play  to  them 
after  dinner,  and  go  out  into  the  garden  with  Mr. 
Martin  to  enjoy  the  music  from  there. 

Mr.  Martin,  left  alone  with  Edward  after  dinner, 
had  another  glass  of  port  before  he  took  his  cig- 
arette on  general  principles  of  honhoviic  and  par- 
taking in  the  pleasure  of  other  people,  and  also  on 
the  particular  principle  that  Airs.  Hancock's  port 
was  a  very  charming  lievcrage.  He  continued  also 
to  trumpet  her  praises  in  a  confidential  manner. 

"The  most  generous  woman  I  know!"  he  said. 
"You  are  indeed  lucky  to  be  allying  yourself  with 
her  daughter.  An  instance  occurred  at  dinner.  I 
mentioned  that  I  was  thinking  of  sending  my  wife 
South  for  the  winter — not  a  word  of  this  yet  to  any- 
body, my  dear  fellow — and  she  guessed  that  expense 
might  be  a  serious  consideration  to  me.  I  had  but 
ever  so  faintly  allufled  to  it.  Instantly  she  offered 
to  help,  suggesting  that  my  wife  should  be  of  her 
party.  You  join  them,  I  think,  you  and  your  bride, 
at  Cairo,  do  you  not?" 

"That  is  the  idea." 

"A  very  good  one.  And  Miss  Elizabeth,  is  she 
going  too?    It  seemed  to  have  occurred  to  her  aunt." 

Edward  got  up. 

"I  know  she  thought  of  it,"  he  said,  "but — but  I 
do  not  suppose  Elizabeth  will  go.  Shall  we  join 
the  others?  I  get  scolded  if  we  stop  in  the  din- 
ing-room too  long." 

"Certainly,  certainly,  if  you  will  allow  me  one 
more  whiff  of  this  excellent  cigarette.    Mrs.  Han- 


THE  TELEGRAM  277 

cock  always  gives  her  guests  of  the  very  best.  And 
how  much  more,  my  dear  fellow,  has  she  given  you 
her  best  of  all." 

Edward  did  not  reply  to  this,  but  waited  in  silence 
while  Mr.  Martin  took  his  one  whiff.  As  they 
crossed  the  hall  the  front-door  bell  sounded  and  Lind 
took  in  a  telegram. 

"Miss  Elizabeth,  sir,"  he  said  to  Edward. 

Edward  just  glanced  at  it;  it  was  a  foreign  tele- 
gram. 

"I'll  take  it  in,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Hancock  had  stationed  herself  strategically 
near  the  window,  so  that  she  could  easily  stroll  out 
with  Mr.  Martin. 

"There  you  are,"  she  said;  "and  you've  both  been 
good  and  not  waited  too  long.  Now  let  us  have 
some  music.  There's  room  for  you  here,  Mr.  Mar- 
tin. Who  will  begin — you,  Edward,  or  Elizabeth? 
I  meant  to  have  got  some  duets  for  you,  and  then 
you  could  have  plaved  together.  What  is  that,  Ed- 
ward?" 

"A  telegram  for  Elizabeth,"  he  said. 

"Open  it  then,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Hancock  to  the 
girl.    "W^e'll  excuse  you." 

The  little  hush  that  so  often  attends  the  opening 
of  a  telegram  fell  on  the  room  as  Elizabeth  tore  open 
the  thin  paper.  She  looked  at  the  message,  and, 
standing  quite  still,  handed  it  to  her  aunt.  It  was 
from  her  stepmother,  and  told  her  that  her  father 
had  died  of  cholera  that  morning. 


BOOK  THREE 
CHAPTER  XII 

APRIL  EVENING 

Elizabeth  was  sitting  in  the  drawing-room  window 
of  the  little  house  that  her  mother  and  she  had 
taken  in  Oakley  Street  on  a  warm,  uncertain  after- 
noon of  April  in  the  following  year.  The  window 
was  wide  open  and  the  breeze  that  blew  in  from 
the  south-west  ruffled  the  leaves  of  the  music  that 
stood  open  on  the  piano.  It  seemed  to  the  girl's  in- 
dolent mood  that  there  was  quite  a  good  chance  of 
their  not  blowing  on  to  the  floor,  and  since  that  was 
so,  she  much  preferred  going  to  pick  them  up  if  this 
happened  rather  than  disturb  herself  for  fear  of  its 
happening.  Outside  there  was  a  small  brick-walled 
enclosure,  with  strips  of  flower-bed,  bright,  nodding 
with  daffodils,  and  a  fig-tree,  rather  sooty  in  foliage, 
and  hopelessly  incapable  of  bearing  any  fruit  at  all, 
was  thrusting  out  broad  handlike  leaves  from  its 
angled  boughs.  This  enclosure  Mrs.  Fanshawe  was 
accustomed  to  call  "that  dreadful  little  backyard" 
when  she  felt  like  that,  but  in  more  cheerful  moods 
alluded  to  it  as  "that  dear  little  garden."  For  some 
days  past  it  had  been  a  dreadful  little  backyard. 

Colonel  Fanshawe  had  left  his  widow  and  daugh- 
ter in  circumstances  that  admitted  of  comfort  and 
demanded  care,  and  Mrs.  Fanshawe  sometimes  com- 
plained of,  sometimes  rather  enjoyed  the  practice 
of  economy.    Elizabeth  was  rather  afraid  of  those 

279 


280  ARUNDEL 

bouts  of  economical  enjoyment,  for  they  meant  that 
Mrs.  Fanshawe  was  apt  to  order  more  coal  than  the 
cellar  would  possibly  hold,  as  she  got  a  cheaper  quo- 
tation for  large  quantities,  or  would  take  a  taxicab  to 
some  far-distant  shop  in  Oxford  Street,  keep  it  wait- 
ing an  hour  and  drive  back  in  it  bursting  with  in- 
numerable packages.  She  would  then  gleefully 
reckon  up  the  saving  she  had  effected  by  not  buy- 
ing the  same  goods  at  the  shop  just  round  the  cor- 
ner; sometimes  it  amounted  to  as  much  as  two 
shillings,  in  which  case  she  would  give  Elizabeth 
quite  a  little  homily  on  the  virtue  of  thrift  and  the 
immense  importance  of  looking  aftor  the  pence.  The 
shillings  apparently  as  represented  by  the^taxi  were 
capable  of  looking  after  themselves.  After  this 
thrifty  afternoon  she  wovdd  feel  that  a  little  treat 
was  owing  to  them,  and  she  would  take  Elizabeth 
to  a  concert.  At  other  times,  still  enjoying  it,  she 
would  help  in  the  housework,  and,  putting  on  a  very 
pretty  grey  apron,  dust  the  china  on  the  chimney- 
piece  in  the  drawing-room,  or  even  clean  the  handle 
of  the  front  door  with  some  sample  that  had  been 
sent  her  which  was  of  unrivalled  merit  in  polishing 
brasswork.  She  still  requiretl  a  great  deal  of  rest 
to  recuperate  her  from  labours  past,  and  fit  her 
for  those  to  come,  and  always  had  breakfast  in 
bed.  Apart  from  this  necessary  repose  and  the 
fatigue  engendered  by  the  practice  of  economies, 
her  time  for  the  last  two  months  had  been  largely 
taken  up  in  collecting  materials  for  a  "Short 
Memoir"  of  her  late  husband. 

"I  feel  that  I  who  know  him  best,"  she  said  to 
Ehzabeth,  "owe  it  to  his  large  circle  of  friends  at 
home  and  abroad,  who  loved  him,  to  tell  them  what 
I  can  about  him.  It  is  my  duty,  dear.  In  addition 
to  that,  his  public  service  as  a  soldier  was  never 
properly  appreciated  by  the  War  OflBce,  and  it  is 


APRIL  EVENING  281 

right  that  they  should  know  what  they  have  lost, 
now  that  it  is  too  late." 

Elizabeth  felt  as  if  a  file  had  been  drawn  across 
her  front  teeth,  and  her  stepmother  went  on  with 
a  certain  degree  of  complacency,  with  a  sense  of  im- 
portance, and  yet  not  without  sincerity. 

"It  is  so  beautiful,  that  passage  in  *In  Memo- 
riam,'  "  she  said,  wiping  her  eyes,  "where  Tennyson 
says  that  to  write  about  Mr.  Hallam  is  a  *sad  nar- 
cotic, numbing  pain.'  I  know  he  would  have  under- 
stood my  feeling  about  it,  which  is  just  that.  I  shall, 
of  course,  state  in  the  preface  my  reasons  for  writ- 
ing the  memoir,  and  say  that,  though  it  is  like  tear- 
ing open  a  wound  that  will  never  heal,  I  owe  it  to 
my  dear  husband's  memory." 

She  paused  a  moment. 

"It  will  be  privately  printed,  of  course,"  she  said, 
"and  I  shall  give  it  to  all  his  friends.  I  was  thinking 
of  having  a  purple  cloth  binding  with  gilt  lettering." 

"Won't  it  be  very  expensive,  mamma?"  asked  the 
girl. 

"I  cannot  bring  myself  to  think  about  the  expense. 
You  and  I  will  have  to  be  very  economical,  I  know ; 
but  when  a  call  of  duty  comes  like  this,  I  feel  that 
no  other  consideration  can  stand  in  my  way.  If 
you  think  it  quietly  over,  Elizabeth,"  she  said, 
again  crying  a  little,  "I  believe  you  will  agree  with 
me,  when  you  recollect  all  that  your  dear  father  was. 
It  will  help — I  hope  it  will  help — you  to  appreciate 
him,  too,  as  well  as  the  War  Office." 

This  awful  little  conversation,  which  held  for 
Elizabeth  a  certain  miserable  wounding  humour, 
had  taken  place  soon  after  Mrs.  Fanshawe  had  come 
back  to  England  after  her  husband's  death.  She  had 
returned  as  soon  as  she  had  settled  her  affairs  in 
India,  and  had  sold,  not  unsuccessfully,  the  bunga- 
low and  all  it  contained,  retaining  only  a  few  per- 


282  ARUNDEL 

sonal  possessions  of  his  and  what  belonged  to  Eliza- 
beth and  herself.  This  private  property  included 
many  packets  of  his  letters,  which  she  tied  up  in  a 
black  ribbon  and  bestowed  in  an  immense  tin  dis- 
patch-box, with  "Corrospondence"  (the  orthography 
of  which  was  not  worth  correcting)  printed  in  white 
letters  on  it.  This,  indeed,  had  suggested  to  her  the 
idea  of  the  "Short  Memoir,"  and  with  it  by  the  side 
of  her  chair  or  sofa  she  made  masses  of  extracts,  with 
a  view  to  arranging  them  afterwards  in  the  chapters 
on  his  second  marriage  and  his  home-life.  The  pieces 
which  she  selected  for  publication  almost  entirely 
consisted  of  affectionate  words  to  herself,  and  she 
mostly  omitted  messages  he  sent  to  Elfzabeth,  or, 
indeed,  anything  that  did  not  directly  refer  to  his 
affection  for  his  wife.  Mrs.  Hancock  had  been  put 
under  contribution  to  supply  details  about  his  boy- 
hood and  early  manhood,  which  similarly  consisted 
for  the  most  part  in  stories  to  show  how  fond  he  was 
of  her.  These  for  a  month  had  poured  in  in  im- 
mense quantities,  and  before  they  came  to  an  end 
Mrs.  Fanshawe  had  begun  to  find  them  exceedingly 
tedious.  Dry  details,  in  the  same  way,  about  his 
military  service,  did  not  so  much  engage  Mrs.  Fan- 
shawe's  attention,  and  it  was  Elizabeth's  duty  to 
get  the  facts  about  those  from  Army  Lists,  while 
she,  during  the  long  winter  evenings,  searched 
through  his  letters  for  fresh  instances  of  his  devo- 
tion to  her,  and  wrote  and  had  typewritten  the 
preface,  which  was  on  the  lines  already  indicated. 
The  chapter  on  "Social  Life  in  India"  was  already 
arranged  also,  in  a  rambling  sort  of  fashion,  and 
showed  without  the  slightest  doubt  how  popular 
Mrs.  Fanshawe  was  at  dinner-parties  and  balls,  and 
how  her  husband,  with  the  wonderful  confidence  and 
trust  he  had  in  her,  was  never  the  slightest  bit  jeal- 


APRIL  EVENING  283 

ous.  His  first  wife,  Elizabeth's  mother,  was  scarcely 
to  be  mentioned  in  the  "Short  Memoir."  She  might 
have  been  a  week-end  visitor  who  had  not  made 
much  impression  on  him.  .  .  . 

The  wind,  which  had  been  threatening  so  long 
to  spill  the  music  that  stood  open  on  the  piano,  car- 
ried out  its  intention  at  last,  but  still  Ehzabeth  did 
not  stir.  Something  of  the  languor  of  spring  had 
invaded  her,  and  meaning  every  moment  to  get  up 
and  go  on  with  her  practising,  which  had  been  the 
excuse  for  her  not  going  out  with  her  mother  on 
an  expedition  of  economy  to  the  Army  and  Navy 
Stores,  she  still  lounged  in  the  window-seat  think- 
ing over  all  that  had  passed  since  that  evening 
when  Edward  came  into  the  drawing-room  at  Arun- 
del with  the  foreign  telegram  in  his  hand.  It  had 
been  a  shock  to  her,  the  violence  of  which  she  had 
not  been  conscious  of  at  the  time,  but  which  showed 
itself  afterwards  in  the  weeks  of  nerve  fatigue  that 
followed.  There  had  been  taken  away  something 
in  the  very  core  and  kernel  of  her  life,  and  for  the 
time  she  had  known  less  of  grief  than  of  an  inex- 
plicable lack,  as  if,  on  the  physical  plane,  a  limb 
had  been  amputated,  and  that  she  had  just  awoke 
from  the  operation  and  found  herself  with  arm  or 
leg  no  longer  there.  Indeed,  the  feeling  was  not  so 
much  that  he  was  dead  as  that  a  piece  of  herself  was 
gone.  She  sent  out  messages  from  her  brain  and 
they  were  not  received  anywhere,  nothing  thrilled 
or  moved  in  correspondence  with  them. 

And  then  slowly  and  by  degrees  there  began  to 
wake  in  her  that  new  sense  that  almost  always  wak- 
ens in  those  who  have  suffered  some  intimate 
bereavement.  Her  mind  could  not  take  in,  could  not 
conceive,  when  once  faced  with  it,  the  notion  of  an- 
nihilation, of  ceasing  to  be.    It  revolted  from  it,  and 


284  ARUNDEL 

though  for  a  time  her  reason  (as  she  accounted  her 
reason)  kept  telling  her  that  he  was  gone,  that  the 
clays  of  their  love  and  confidence  were  over,  she 
found  the  conclusion  growing  incredible.  It  began 
to  dawn  in  her,  like  the  waking  of  a  new  intelligence, 
that  there  was  nothing  of  him  gone,  except  the  sight 
of  him,  and  the  possibility  of  his  presence  being  ap- 
prehended any  more  by  her  physical  senses.  She 
knew  she  would  not  again  see  or  touch  him  as  she 
had  known  him  before,  or  again  hear  his  voice,  but 
she  found  herself  daily  realizing  more  and  more  dis- 
tinctly, by  some  perception  as  innate  in  her  as 
growth,  the  knowledge  that  he  was  not  and  could 
not  have  been  taken  away,  amputated,  \lestroyed. 
All  of  him  that  she  missed  so  dreadfully,  all  that 
for  which  she  stretched  out  empty  arms  in  the  dark, 
was  not  her  essential  father,  but  only  the  signs  by 
which  she  knew  him.  He  became  her  companion 
again,  by  no  effort  of  the  imagination,  but  by  the 
assertion  of  an  instinct  that  could  not  be  contra- 
dicted. Never  in  those  conmiunings  with  his  quiet 
wisdom  beneath  the  fading  crimson  of  the  Indian 
sunsets  had  she  felt  more  strongly  than  now  the 
immortal  kinship  between  them,  the  reality  of  their 
spiritual  alliance.  He  had  told  her  once  in  words 
that  at  the  time  seemed  to  her  to  have  been  spoken 
in  an  unknown  tongue  that  it  was  impossible  to  go 
beyond  love,  that  you  can  only  penetrate  into  it, 
finding  it  without  beginning  and  without  end.  It 
was  by  his  death  that  she  had  begun  to  understand 
that,  by  the  knowledge  of  the  impotence  of  the 

supreme  divider The  supreme  divider!     She 

echoed  the  meaningless  words,  the  words  from  which 
all  meaning  had  departed.     Death  did  not  divide; 
it  was  only  meanness,   falseness,  impatience  that 
could  do  so  tragic  a  work. 
She  remembered  with  growing  clearness,  as  she 


APRIL  EVENING  285^ 

lay  in  the  window  seat,  with  the  daffodils  nodding 
outside,  and  the  music  splayed  on  the  floor,  their 
talk  in  the  garden  that  evening.  It  was  as  if  it 
had  been  written  in  her  mind  with  invisible  ink, 
which  required  some  spiritual  solution  to  be  poured 
over  it,  to  bring  out  the  words  again.  She  herself, 
she  remembered,  had  been  full  of  vague  visions  as 
to  the  possibilities  and  wonders  of  the  world.  She 
had  been  full  of  the  dreams  that  were  coloured  with 
the  vivid  unsubstantial  hues  that  are  painted  by 
inexperience.  Now  behind  them,  not  removing 
them  or  painting  over  them,  there  was  stealing, 
soaking  into  them  the  colours  that  at  the  time 
seemed  to  her  to  be  somehow  dull,  dingy,  stereo- 
typed. What  he  had  said  to  her  about  love  had 
seemed  somehow  commonplace,  and  when  an  hour 
or  two  afterwards  she  had  sat  by  the  dying  fakir 
at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  it  was  more  the  sen- 
sationalism, the  picturesqueness  of  that  weary  and 
happy  passing  that  had  affected  her.  Now  she  saw 
differently — she  saw  that  precisely  the  same  spirit, 
precisely  the  same  inborn  knowledge  had  inspired 
both.  The  same  rich  and  unclouded  vision  was  their 
daily  outlook.  They  had  both  staked  their  all  on 
love.  Then  a  few  days  afterwards  Elizabeth  had 
ridden  out  with  her  father,  and  he  had  spoken  to 
her  in  the  same  quiet  way  about  death.  He  had 
said  he  enjoyed  life  tremendously,  but  as  for  death 
it  was  to  him  but  another  stage  in  growing  up.  .  .  . 

Elizabeth  turned  her  face  to  the  garden  and  the 
bright  daffodils. 

"Daddy !    Daddy ! "  she  said  aloud. 

She  raised  herself  on  her  elbow,  with  the  indo- 
lence and  languor  of  spring  quite  slipped  off  from 
her,  overwhelmingly  conscious  of  her  nearness  to 
her  father,  not  to  his  memory,  but  to  him.    None 


286  ARUNDEL 

knew,  none  ever  would  know  except  herself,  and 
she  but  guessed  at  the  huge  significance  of  it,  just 
what  his  death  had  done  for  her  with  regard  to  her 
comprehension  of  life.  The  news  had  come  to  her 
in  days  of  despair,  when  love  itself  seemed  mani- 
fested to  her  only  in  the  form  of  a  desperate  renun- 
ciation, when  she  who  loved  and  was  loved  in  re- 
turn, was  severed  just  by  an  untimely  promise,  by 
a  bond  signed  blindly.  Even  then  she  had  known, 
though  only  by  the  groping  of  instinct,  that  to  dis- 
own that,  or  to  allow  it  to  be  disowned,  was  to  poison 
the  very  fountain  and  well-spring  of  love.  Edward, 
she  knew  well,  with  reason  on  his  side,  had  longed 
to  marry  her  in  despite  of  that,  believing  that  the 
eternal  gushing  of  that  spring  would  wash  away 
from  the  mouth  of  it  the  taint  that  had  been  laid 
there.  But  now  she  had  begun  to  see  how  it  was 
that  her  instinct  had  directed  her,  for  even  then, 
when  her  need  was  the  sorest,  she  had  compre- 
hended, though  without  conscious  knowledge  of  her 
comprehension,  that  while  loyalty  was  of  the  very 
essence  of  love,  passion  was  but  a  symptom  of  it; 
that  while  love  died  at  the  breath  of  disloyalty,  it 
existed  still,  deep  and  cahn,  though  the  symptom, 
the  froth  on  the  surface  was  blown  off  it  by  the 
austere  wind  of  mere  straightforward,  common- 
place duty,  or  was  suffered  to  die  down  under  the 
frozen  dawn  of  renunciation.  How  she  had  longed 
through  those  thirsty  days  to  be  able  to  go  to  her 
father  and  be  comforted  by  his  steadfast  upholding 
of  her  choice,  a  draught  of  cold,  sweet  water  in  the 
sultriness  of  a  barren  land.  Never,  so  it  had  been 
ordained,  should  she  whisper  to  him  the  story  of 
the  summer,  nor  cry  her  fill  on  his  shoulder,  but 
his  upholding  and  his  comforting  had  been  not  one 
whit  less  vivid  and  present  to  her,  though  far  away 


APRIL  EVENING  287 

the  parching  wind  swept  over  the  grave  beneath  the 
tamarisk-trees  in  that  remote  cemetery. 

But  it  was  not  often  she  thought  either  of  the 
grave  or  of  his  death  itself,  for  those  things  seemed 
to  her  even  as  they  had  seemed  to  him,  but  little 
incidents  of  the  wayside,  not  events  of  great  moment 
in  the  onward  march  of  his  soul,  nor  to  be  given  a 
place  beside  what  he  had  been  and  what  he  was 
to  her.  He  had  died  swiftly  under  the  stroke  of 
the  sword  of  the  pestilence,  died  in  a  few  hours 
from  the  time  that  he  had  been  taken  ill.  They 
had  buried  him  that  night  as  the  moon  rose,  with 
the  wheeling  planets  for  his  funeral  lamps,  and  the 
flitting  owls  crying  his  requiem.  It  was  but  little 
of  him  and  that  no  more  than  a  garment  outworn 
that  had  there  been  laid  to  rest;  he,  his  essential 
self,  seemed  to  Elizabeth  never  to  have  left  her 
through  all  the  dark  days  of  autumn  and  winter, 
nor  through  the  lengthening  evenings  of  this  long- 
delayed  spring. 

It  had  been  a  hard  struggle  and  a  stern  one,  this 
work  in  which  his  spirit  seemed  so  continually  to 
have  been  at  her  side.  There  was  so  much  which 
appeared  inextricably  intertwined  with  her  love  for 
Edward  that  must  be  cast  out,  annihilated;  there 
w^as  so  much  also,  and  this  was  of  even  greater 
moment,  that  must  be  so  loyally  and  uncompro- 
misingly kept.  Not  one  of  those  threads  of  pure 
gold  that  ran  through  the  whole  fabric  must  be 
drawn  out  of  it;  there  must  be  no  loss  of  that,  no 
turning  the  royal  mantle  into  a  cloak  for  a  funeral. 
She  must  not  part,  if  her  shoulders,  on  to  which  it 
had  fallen,  were  to  be  worthy  of  it,  with  one  gleam 
of  its  splendour,  with  one  atom  of  its  gold,  and  here 
was  a  task  to  test  the  utmost  of  her  patience  and 
her  wisdom,  in  preserving  all  this,  and  yet  unravel- 
ling and  disentangling  certain  other  threads.    There 


288  ARUNDEL 

were  feelings,  there  were  attitudes  of  mind,  there 
were  desires  connected  with  Edward  that  seemed 
at  first  to  be  an  integral  part  of  the  fabric,  so  strictly 
were  they  woven  into  it;  it  seemed  that  to  draw 
these  out  must  make  rents.  And  yet  it  had  to  be 
done,  to  be  done  radically  and  completely,  though 
no  rent  must  be  seen  or  exist  there.  It  was  not 
that  these  things  were  in  themselves  no  part  of 
love;  it  was  only  that  circumstances  had  made  it 
impossible  that  they  should  be  part  of  her  love  for 
him.  Indeed,  they  were  not  hers;  they  belonged  by 
right  to  Edith.  They  must  come  out  of  her  fabric; 
each  one  of  them  must  come  out.  She  had  to  divert 
from  it  certain  strains,  certain  colours,* the  human 
longing,  the  desire,  the  yearning  even.  They  were 
natural,  they  were  proper  for  one  other  woman  only, 
but  not  for  herself.  How  well  she  remembered  how 
her  father  had  told  her  that  knowledge  would  come 
to  her  through  love,  through  love  of  a  "common 
man,"  as  she  had  added.  It  was  even  so;  it  had 
come  to  her  thus,  and  even  more  through  the  right 
renunciation,  not  the  mere  rejection  of  the  whole, 
but  the  rejection  of  a  certain  part  of  it.  The  gold, 
all  that  was  infinitely  precious,  must  remain.  But 
the  rest  was  not  dross;  merely  it  was  not  hers. 

Not  only  at  first,  but  through  long  months  of 
patient  effort,  the  task  appeared  impossible,  so 
intimately  was  the  passion  of  her  love  woven  in 
with  the  love  itself.  Sensibly  enough,  she  let  her 
subconscious  mind  work  at  it,  while  she  employed 
her  best  efforts  in  filling  the  days  with  other  in- 
terests and  occupations.  Yet  so  many  of  these, 
and  of  them  all  the  one  that  hitherto  had  most  en- 
thralled and  engrossed  her,  namely,  the  study  of 
music,  gave  her  every  moment  stabs  of  recollection. 
Her  passion  for  it  had  been  so  immensely  kindled 
and  quickened  by  him,  that  when  she  tried  to  kindle 


APRIL  EVENING  289 

it  again,  it  was  still  the  thought  of  him  that  fed 
the  flame.  All  that  had  to  go;  she  must  retrace 
her  steps  and  find  for  it  the  inspiration  of  itself 
alone.  She  had  to  shatter  the  dreams  with  which 
it  filled  her;  she  had  to  shake  herself  awake  from 
them.  The  associations  which  it  roused  in  her  must 
be  disconnected  from  it;  it  had  to  be  made  to  speak 
to  her  with  its  own  voice.  Often  she  thought  of 
giving  it  up  altogether,  of  cutting  off  from  the  stem 
of  her  life  the  flower  of  melody  and  harmony,  so 
closely  were  they  set  with  thorns  that  made  her 
heart  bleed.  Yet  that  again  would  have  been  a 
wanton  and  a  mutilating  renunciation.  Instead, 
with  patience  that  sometimes  shrank  and  fainted, 
she  set  herself  to  pick  off  the  thorns  that  were  no 
essential  part  of  the  growth.  Yet  the  thorns  bled; 
the  very  stem  seemed  to  ooze  with  the  life-sap. 

And  of  all  the  spiritual  tasks  which  filled  Eliza- 
beth's days  with  strivings,  and  drove  sleep  from 
her  during  the  weary  nights,  the  most  haunting, 
the  most  difficult  of  all  remains  to  be  mentioned 
— namely,  that  of  keeping  her  heart  sweet  when 
she  thought  of  Edith.  It  seemed  at  first  that  mere 
patience,  mere  daily  and  unremitting  striving,  was 
of  no  avail  to  quarry  away  that  adamantine  block; 
the  tools  of  her  armoury  were  blunted  at  its  con- 
tact. She  tried  not  to  judge  her,  or  to  attempt  to 
record  a  verdict  about  an  action  that  was  morally 
unintelligible  to  her,  if,  indeed,  she  could  preserve 
herself  from  thinking  it  vile,  but  when  she  contem- 
plated the  choice  Edith  had  made,  her  refusal  to 
let  Edward  go  free  from  the  promise  he  had  made, 
before  he  knew  what  love  was,  she  could  scarcely 
abstain  from  revolted  condemnation,  or  succeed  in 
leaving  the  case  unjudged.  It  was  not  easy  to  dis- 
sociate from  it  the  momentous  personal  conse- 
quences that  this  refusal  held  for  her,  or  to  look  at  it 


290  ARUNDEL 

impartially,  as  if  the  situation  had  been  presented 
to  her  as  an  incident  that  had  happened  among 
strangers;  but  even  when  she  most  schooled  her- 
self to  put  her  own  entanglement  in  it  out  of  the 
question  she  felt  it  difficult  not  to  seethe  with  scorn 
over  it.  She  could  not  understand  how  a  girl  with 
respect  either  for  herself  or  the  great  emotions 
could  refuse  to  set  free  a  man  who  no  longer  wished 
to  be  tied  to  her,  who  longed,  as  Edith  knew  very- 
well,  to  be  acquitted  of  his  promise.  It  was  incon- 
ceivable, even  had  he  not  given  his  heart  elsewhere, 
to  claim  a  right  in  such  a  matter,  to  refuse  to  un- 
cage the  bird  of  love  which  was  beating  its  wings 
against  the  wires,  just  because  the  cage  was  hers, 
and  in  her  hands  it  was  to  close  or  unclose  the  door. 
It  seemed  to  Elizabeth  that  the  very  fact  that  Edith 
loved  him,  though  it  made  it  more  difficult  for  her 
to  give  him  up,  must  make  that  giving  of  him  up 
the  more  imperative.  Love,  so  it  appeared  to  her, 
must  have  relaxed  the  fingers  that  detained  him. 
Had  she  not  cared  for  him,  had  she  not  known 
what  love  was,  these  other  desires,  the  liking  she 
had  for  him,  the  desire  in  a  general  way  to  be 
married,  the  feeling  that  she  would  be  happy  with 
him,  might  have  caused  her  to  keep  him,  or,  at 
any  rate,  not  voluntarily  to  release  him  from  his 
promise.  But  that  she  could  love  (as  Ehzabeth 
rightly  felt  she  did)  and  yet  not  find  predominant 
over  everything  else  the  longing  for  his  happiness 
was  the  thing  that  was  utterly  inconceivable. 

Whether  Edith  had  secured  her  own  happiness 
she  had  no  idea  whatever.  She  had  but  seen  her 
some  half-dozen  times  since  Edward  and  Edith  had 
returned  from  Egypt  in  the  early  spring,  and  Edith 
seemed  to  have  developed  a  sort  of  sheath  over  her, 
a  carapace  that  was  insensitive  to  the  touch.  It 
was   natural — indeed,    anything   else   would   have 


APRIL  EVENING  291 

been  impossible — that  no  mention  of  past  history 
or  how  it  bore  on  the  present  should  take  place  be- 
tween them,  but  it  seemed  to  Elizabeth  that  her 
cousin  had  shut  herself  up  in  this  hard  integument, 
and  gave  no  indication  of  her  real  self.  If  she  spoke 
of  her  home,  it  was  to  say  that  they  had  put  a  fresh 
carpet  down  in  the  drawing-room,  if  of  her  daily 
life,  to  say  that  she  often  lunched  with  her  mother; 
if  of  Mrs.  Hancock,  that  she  had  raised  Denton's 
wages;  if  of  Edward,  that  he  seldom  came  back 
from  the  City  before  the  later  of  the  two  trains. 
Once  or  twice,  it  is  true,  it  had  seemed  to  Eliza- 
beth as  if  Edith  was  wanting  to  say  something 
more,  that,  as  if  shipwrecked  on  some  desert  island, 
she  was  silently  waving  an  inconspicuous  flag,  that 
might,  indeed,  not  be  a  flag  at  all.  But  nothing 
came  of  these  efforts,  and  it  was  impossible  for 
Elizabeth  to  urge  her  to  confidence,  when  it  was 
so  very  doubtful  whether  she  wished  to  confide,  or, 
indeed,  had  anything  to  say.  Once  Elizabeth  had 
made  an  impulsive  attempt — had  said  suddenly, 
not  pausing  to  consider  the  wisdom  of  such  a 
speech,  but  eager  for  her  own  sincerity — 

"Oh,  Edith,  I  hope  you  are  happy.  You  are, 
aren't  you?"  And  Edith,  if  she  had  been  signal- 
ling, furled  her  flag  at  once,  as  if  afraid  it  had  been 
seen. 

"Quite  happy,  thank  you,"  she  had  said,  and 
picked  up  from  the  floor  the  umbrella  with  a  false 
onyx  top  that  had  fallen  there.  She  proceeded  to 
explain  about  the  top.  Mrs.  Hancock  had  bought  it 
in  Cairo  very  cheap,  and  Edith  hoped  she  would 
never  know  it  was  not  real  onyx.  She  need  not 
have  been  afraid,  for  Mrs.  Hancock  had  had  her 
doubts  on  the  subject,  but  had  resolutely  put  them 
from  her  before  she  made  this  present. 

It  has  been  said  that  Elizabeth  was  "eager  for 


292  ARUNDEL 

her  own  sincerity"  in  wishing  to  know  that  Edith 
was  happy.  That  expresses  with  fair  accuracy  the 
measure  of  her  success  in  trying  not  to  judge  Edith. 
It  may  be  taken  also  as  the  epitaph  on  the  grave 
where  her  jealousy  of  her  was  buried.  The  cynic 
is  at  liberty  to  reflect  that  since  Edward  did  not 
love  his  wife  she  had  no  cause  for  jealousy. 

Of  all  the  virtues  that  lift  the  eyes  of  men  to 
the  hills,  patience  is  the  least  admired,  has  the  least 
to  attract  the  attention  and  thus  earn  the  encourage- 
ment of  others,  and  yet  none  is  more  certain  of  its 
results.  Never  does  it  fail  in  putting  forth  its  fruits 
in  due  season,  nor  in  accomplishing  its  perfect 
work.  But  for  the  most  part  its  growth  is  imper- 
ceptible; it  docs  not  shoot  up  like  the  aloe  flower, 
nor  challenge  attention  from  the  brilliance  of  its 
blossoming;  and,  like  the  violet,  it  hides  its  lovely 
fragrance,  and  those  who  observe  carelessly  and 
without  love  are  usually  quite  unaware  of  its  blos- 
soming. It  trumpets  forth  no  deeds  of  valour,  it 
fills  the  stage  with  no  heroic  attitudes  and  splendid 
speeches;  and  only  those  who  watch  tenderly  and 
closely  can  see  the  growth  of  its  sweet-smelling 
purple.  It  was  not  a  matter  for  wonder  then  that 
IVIrs.  Fanshawe.  eagerly  intent  on  herself,  interested 
in  her  own  grief  and  bereavement,  and  marvellously 
anxious  that  others  should  be  (if  possible)  equally 
interested  in  them,  should  have  observed  nothing  of 
this  modest  flowering,  not  even  now,  when  on  this 
languid  April  day  Elizabeth's  plot  was  thick  with 
the  flowers  of  her  silent  gardening.  Indeed,  she  was 
disposed  to  blame  her  stepdaughter  for  many  omis- 
sions in  her  general  conduct.  There  was  much  to  be 
desired  in  her  that  she  did  not  get.  When  she 
played  to  her,  so  to  speak,  Elizabeth  was  not  al- 
ways ready  to  dance;  when  she  mourned  Elizabeth 
did  not  always  weep.    She  took  but  a  tepid  interest 


APRIL  EVENING  293 

in  Mrs.  Fanshawe's  brilliant  and  absorbing  econo- 
mies, and  though  she  was  always  ready  to  go  on 
searching  through  Army  Lists,  she  did  not  bring  to 
that  employment  the  eager  zeal  which  might  have 
been  expected  from  one  who  had  just  lost  so  well- 
beloved  a  father.  Worse  still,  when  Mrs.  Fanshawe's 
voice  sometimes  broke  and  her  eyes  filled  with  self- 
pitying  tears,  as  she  read  aloud  to  Elizabeth  some 
fresh  and  pathetic  page  of  the  memoir,  describing 
how  her  father  had  sat  up  till  half-past  three  on 
two  consecutive  nights  so  that  his  wife  should 
have  her  fill  of  dancing,  Elizabeth  seemed  as  hard 
as  adamant  over  this  poignant  recollection.  In- 
deed, Elizabeth  had  tried  to  persuade  her  (quite 
unsuccessfully)  to  cut  out  from  the  preface  the 
concluding  paragraph  which  began  "Out  of  the 
depths  of  my  broken  heart  I  wish  to  thank  all  those 
friends  whose  sympathy  has  supported  me  in  my 
bereavement." 

Indeed,  Mrs.  Fanshawe  was  afraid  that  she  had 
not  been  far  astray  when,  on  first  marrying,  she 
had  formed  the  conclusion  that  Elizabeth  was  a 
selfish  sort  of  girl.  She  had  believed  then  that  she 
had  a  great  affection  for  her  father  (who  really 
rather  spoiled  her)  and  had  tried,  the  dear  fellow,  to 
spoil  his  wife  as  well ;  but  now,  so  quietly  did  Eliza- 
beth take  her  bereavement,  she  was  afraid  that, 
after  all,  her  affection  for  her  father  was  not  so 
very  deep.  Otherwise  she  must  have  found  the 
writing  of  the  memoir  a  work  at  which  it  was  an 
agonizing  yet  exquisite  pleasure  to  assist.  Other- 
wise, again,  Elizabeth  could  not  have  been  so  re- 
markably industrious  in  her  music;  she  could  not, 
within  a  couple  of  months  of  her  father's  death, 
begin  a  course  of  instruction  in  the  piano  at  the 
Royal  Institute.  She  would  have  been  unable 
to  give  her  mind,  as  she  was  undoubtedly  doing,  to 


294  ARUNDEL 

this  very  nice  accomplishment  of  playing  the  piano, 
but  have  immured  herself  in  the  privacy  of  Oakley 
Street,  and  refused  to  see  anybody  but  her  step- 
mother, to  whom  she  must  have  been  irresistibly 
drawn  by  the  bond  of  their  common  sorrow.  Inci- 
dentally, too,  these  music  lessons  seemed  to  Mrs. 
Fanshawe  very  expensive  for  the  gratification  of  a 
mere  luxurious  whim,  and  the  thought  of  them 
often  impelled  her  to  distant  economical  expeditions, 
implying  a  huge  expense  in  taxi-cabs.  It  was  on 
one  of  these  that  she  had  gone  out  this  afternoon, 
the  object  being  to  purchase  large  quantities  of 
violet  soap,  so  cheap  if  you  bought  a  large  box  of 
it,  and  other  little  things  that  would  prbbably  occur 
to  her,  from  a  shop  in  High  Holborn.  Though  the 
distance  was  considerable,  Elizabeth  was  surprised 
she  was  not  back  by  the  time  the  servant  brought 
up  tea;  but  since  she  might  return  any  moment, 
and  be  querulous  over  the  fact  that  tea  was  not 
made,  she  prepared  it,  risking  the  other  possibility 
that  it  might  be  cold  when  her  stepmother  returned, 
who  would  then  drink  it  with  the  air  of  a  martyr, 
or  be  compelled,  though  she  hated  extravagance  and 
unnecessary  trouble  to  servants,  to  order  a  fresh 
teapot.  One  of  the  two  was  likely,  since,  as  has 
been  mentioned,  the  open  space  at  the  back  of  the 
house  had  been  for  the  last  fortnight  the  horrid 
little  backyard. 

But  an  agreeable  surprise  w^as  in  store.  Mrs. 
Fanshawe  came  in  before  long  in  the  most  excellent 
spirits,  full  of  affection  and  tenderness. 

"And  my  dear  little  musical  Cinderella  has  made 
tea,"  she  said,  "all  ready  for  her  wicked  stepmother ! 
Darling,  you  should  have  come  out  with  me,  it  is 
the  loveliest  day;  you  are  too  industrious.  Per- 
haps this  evening  you  will  play  to  me  something 
you  have  been  so  diligently  practising." 


APRIL  EVENING  295 

Elizabeth  poured  out  tea. 

"I'm  afraid  I  haven't  been  so  very  industrious, 
mamma,"  she  said.  "I've  been  sitting  in  the  win- 
dow nearly  an  hour  doing  nothing." 

"Ah,  it  is  not  doing  nothing  to  enjoy  this  sweet 
breeze  and  look  at  the  daffodils  in  our  sweet  little 
garden.  My  dear,  what  a  good  cup  of  tea!  No- 
body makes  tea  like  you.     I  often  say  it." 

She  often  did,  though  with  quite  a  different 
nuance.  But  clearly  the  days  of  the  horrid  little 
backyard  were  over  for  the  present. 

"Such  an  afternoon  as  I  have  had,  dear,"  she 
continued.  "You  would  never  guess  all  the  things 
that  have  happened  to  me.  Who  should  I  meet, 
for  instance,  in  Isaacs  and  Redford's  but  your  Aunt 
Julia,  so  pleasant  and  full  of  welcome!  And  noth- 
ing would  content  her  but  that  I  must  promise  to 
bring  you  down  to  stay  with  her  next  Friday  over 
the  Sunday.  Her  dear  little  Elizabeth,  she  called 
you.  We  quite  quarrelled  over  that.  I  said  you 
were  my  dear  little  Elizabeth.  She  has  been  so 
busy,  she  said,  since  her  return  from  Egypt  in 
February,  getting  things  straight  after  her  long  ab- 
sence or  she  would  have  asked  me  many  times  be- 
fore. I  never  thought  it  odd,  I  am  glad  to  say, 
that  she  had  not  done  so;  I  always  refrained  from 
wondering  at  it,  though,  to  be  sure,  three  months 
is  a  long  time  to  take  putting  things  straight  after 
an  absence  of  two.  But  now  she  quite  insists  on 
it;  she  simply  would  not  let  me  go  until  I  had 
promised,  and  she  will  send  her  motor  to  the  sta- 
tion to  meet  whatever  train  we  settle  to  travel  by." 

Here  was  a  prospect  that  had  long  daunted  Eliza- 
beth to  look  forward  to,  yet  of  necessity  it  must 
sometime  come  close  to  her.  She  had  not  so  much 
as  seen  Edward  since  he  handed  her  the  telegram 
last  August  in  Mrs.  Hancock's  drawing-room;  he 


296  ARUXDEL 

and  she.  tacitly  contriving  together  in  sundered  co- 
operation had  averted  that.  Her  heart  leaped  and 
sank  and  leaped  again ;  she  shrank  from  seeing  him, 
and  had  not  known  till  now,  when  in  the  natural 
course  of  events  she  must  see  him,  how  much  she 
longed  to.  On  her  side  there  was  no  reasonable 
excuse  to  urge  against  the  plan,  and  had  there  been 
she  hardly  knew  whether  she  would  have  urged 
it.  On  his  side,  he  might  escape  the  meeting,  say 
that  he  had  arranged  to  take  Edith  away  for  the 
Sunday,  but  she  felt  sure  that  if  he  understood 
that  she  had  consented  to  go  down  to  her  aunt's  he 
would  not  absent  himself.  He  waited^  so  she  in- 
stinctively knew,  for  a  sign  that  she  was  willing  to 
meet  him.  Otherwise  he  would  long  ago  have  been 
to  see  her.  She  quite  understood  his  absence  and 
his  silence. 

Any  sign  of  emotion  that  might  have  escaped 
her  was  certainly  not  seen  by  her  stepmother,  who 
was  full  of  the  wonders  of  this  afternoon.  But  EHza- 
beth  felt  that  something  beyonrl  this  invitation  to 
Heathmoor  had  occurred  to  send  Mrs.  Fanshawe's 
mental  barometer  up  to  such  exhilarated  serenity 
of  fair  weather,  and  she  waited  for  it  to  be  told  her. 
It  did  not  come  at  once;  she  mentioned  first  the 
other  objects  on  which  some  ray  had  beamed  which 
gilded  and  transfigured  them. 

"Such  a  long  and  dear  talk  I  had  with  her,"  she 
went  on,  "and  she  begged,  if  it  did  not  hurt  me  too 
much,  to  bring  down  all  the  memoirs  that  I  have 
written  to  read  to  her  quietly.  After  she  had  gone 
I  bought  the  soap  and  the  other  little  things  I 
wanted,  which  were  even  cheaper  than  I  had  antici- 
pated, and  you  never  would  guess,  dear,  how  I  came 
back  here.  Perhaps  you  will  scarcely  believe  it 
when  I  tell  you,  for  I  got  on  the  top  of  a  'bus,  with 
my  great  box  of  soap  and  my  other  parcels,  and 


APRIL  EVENING  297 

came  all  the  way  right  to  the  Chelsea  Town  Hall 
for  threepence,  not  counting  the  sixpence  with 
which  I  tipped  the  conductor,  who  was  most  oblig- 
ing and  helped  me  with  my  things.  Really  very 
polite!  In  spite  of  my  packages,  he  of  course  saw 
I  was  not  just  a  common  woman  like  the  rest  of 
the  passengers,  and  I  hesitated  whether  I  ought  to 
have  given  him  a  shilling.  But  I  have  never  en- 
joyed making  a  little  economy  and  denying  myself 
comforts  more  than  I  did  when  I  got  up  on  that 
'bus." 

No,  it  was  not  the  'bus  ride,  so  thought  Eliza- 
beth, that  had  produced  this  exhilaration  and  pleas- 
ure.   She  waited. 

"But  before  I  got  up  on  to  my  'bus  I  gave  my- 
self just  a  little  treat,"  Mrs.  Fanshawe  proceeded, 
"and  went  into  one  of  those  electric  palaces,  as  they 
call  them,  where  you  see  the  cinematograph.  I 
was  not  quite  sure  whether  it  was  the  sort  of  thing 
that  is  thought  respectable,  and  so  I  looked  pretty 
closely  at  the  programme  before  I  entered.  But 
I  need  not  have  been  afraid ;  I  never  saw  anything 
more  refined,  and  you  and  I  will  go  together  one 
of  these  days,  dear.  So  cheap,  too;  only  a  shilling. 
Why,  you  could  go  every  day  for  a  week  and  not 
spend  more  than  in  one  evening  in  the  dress-circle 
at  the  theatre." 

Mrs.  Fanshawe  looked  up  at  Elizabeth  with  that 
glance  of  soft,  shy  helplessness  which  many  men 
found  so  provocatively  feminine  and  pleading,  and 
called  forth  the  instinct  of  protection  in  their  some- 
what unobservant  minds.  For,  on  the  whole,  no- 
body was  less  in  need  of  protection  than  she;  she 
was  almost  aggressively  able  to  take  care  of  her- 
self. 

"And  I  didn't  have  to  carry  my  parcels  after  all," 
she  said,  "from  where  the  'bus  stopped,  for  whom 


298  ARUXDEL 

should  I  see  just  coming  out  of  the  chemist's  there 
but  that  dear  Sir  Henry  Meyrick,  who  was  Com- 
mander-in-Chief in  India.  Do  you  remember?  He 
came  home  only  a  couple  of  days  ago  on  leave,  and 
will  be  here  till  January.  He  stayed  with  us  once 
at  Peshawar,  darling,  in  those  happy,  happy  days!" 

Mrs.  Fanshawe  took  out  her  handkerchief  and 
dabbed  the  corners  of  her  eyes.  This  was  a  piece 
of  ritual  that  ha<l  lost  its  practical  significance  (for 
there  was  not  the  semblance  of  moisture  there), 
and  was  merely  the  outward  and  visible  sign  of  an 
inward  grief. 

"I  stayed  with  him  afterwards  at  Simla,"  she 
said,  "and  got.  oh,  so  fond  of  him!  It^was  while 
I  was  staying  there,  you  know,  that  the  news  came 
that  caused  my  poor  heart  to  break.  My  dear,  he 
was  like  a  woman  for  tenderness  to  me,  and  yet  he 
had  the  strength  of  a  man ;  and  I  can  never,  never 
forget  what  I  owe  dear  Sir  Henry.  If  it  had  not 
been  for  him  I  am  convinced  I  should  quite  have 
broken  down,  or  even  made  away  with  myself." 

Elizabeth  felt  sure  that  she  had  here  the  origin 
of  the  wonderful  rise  in  her  stepmother's  spirits. 
And  an  idea,  horrible  to  contemplate,  came  close 
to  her  and  stared  her  in  the  face.  She  resolutely 
turned  away  from  it. 

"Yes.  I  remember  him  quite  well."  she  said.  "I 
thought  you  found  him  rather  foolish  and  ridicu- 
lous." 

"Foolish  and  ridiculous!"  said  Mrs.  Fanshawe, 
with  great  energy.  "I  cannot  imagine  what  you 
mean,  Elizabeth.  You  must  be  confusing  him  with 
some  one  else." 

"Perhaps  I  am,"  said  the  girl.  "It  is  stupid  of 
me.    How  was  he  looking?" 

Mrs.  Fanshawe  calmed  down  at  once  and  became 
softly  pathetic  again. 


APRIL  EVENING  299 

"Oh,  so  different  to  what  he  was  when  you  saw 
him,"  she  said,  "when  he  was  so  cheery  and  jolly, 
and  made  all  the  women  in  Peshawar  fall  in  love 
with  him.  At  least,  I  am  sure  that  I  did.  He  looked 
so  anxious  and  unhappy,  Elizabeth,  that  my  heart 
quite  went  out  to  him,  and  I  longed  to  comfort 
him.  And  he  brightened  up  so  when  he  saw  me; 
he  looked  quite  radiant  again.  And  you  will  never 
guess  what  a  pretty  welcome  he  gave  me,  though 
of  course  it  was  very  foolish  of  him.  He  said,  'My 
dear  little  girl — my  dear  little  girl!'  twice  over,  just 
like  that.  And  he  held  out  both  his  hands  to  me, 
and  dropped  his  umbrella  in  a  puddle  and  never 
seemed  to  notice  it.  And  there  was  I  with  my 
arms  full  of  great  heavy  parcels.  I  declare  for 
a  moment  I  was  quite  ashamed  before  so  true  a 
gentleman  as  Sir  Henry  is.  And  he  took  all  the 
parcels  from  me — and  oh,  my  dear,  it  was  so  won- 
derful to  me  in  my  loneliness  in  the  crowded  streets 
to  be  taken  care  of  again  like  that! — and  carried 
them  right  up  to  the  door,  and  gave  them  to  Mary 
when  she  opened  it.  He  would  not  let  me  touch 
them  again  myself." 

Again  the  idea  stood  close  to  Elizabeth,  hold- 
ing her,  so  it  seemed,  not  letting  her  turn  her  face 
away.    And  the  soft,  childUke  voice  went  on. 

"He  asked  after  you,  too,"  she  said,  "so  nicely 
and  affectionately.  He  would  not  come  in  then, 
for  he  had  some  other  appointment;  and  though  he 
wanted  to  break  it  I  did  not  let  him.  But  he  is 
coming  to  dine  here  to-night.  I  shall  not  think  of 
making  any  extra  preparation  for  him.  He  will  like 
it  best  just  to  see  me  in  my  quiet,  modest  little  house 
just  naturally." 

There  was  a  moment's  rather  awkward  pause, 
for  ]\Irs.  Fanshawe  had  to  consider  how  to  rein- 
troduce a  topic  that  had  been  spoken  of  that  morn- 


300  ARUNDEL 

ing  between  her  and  Elizabeth  in  hours  of  the  "hor- 
rid little  backyard."  EUzabeth  had  wanted  to  go 
to  the  Queen's  Hall  to  attend  a  concert  of  the  riiost 
ravishing  character  that  was  to  be  performed  that 
night,  but  had  given  up  the  idea  owing  to  a  marked 
querulousness  on  her  stepmother's  part  at  the  pros- 
pect of  passing  a  deserted  evening.  There  had 
even  been  pained  wonder  at  the  girl  caring  to  go 
out  to  an  evening  of  pleasure  so  soon.  But  she  was 
not  apt  to  be  troubled  at  her  own  inconsistencies, 
and  the  pause  was  not  long. 

''He  will  be  sorry  not  to  see  you,  I  am  sure,  dar- 
ling," she  said,  "but  I  think  you  told  me  you  were 
going  to  a  concert  at  the  Queen's  Hall.  Very  likely 
you  will  not  be  in  till  nearly  eleven,  and  you  may 
be  sure  I  shall  have  a  nice  cosy  little  supper  ready 
for  you  when  you  come  back." 

To  Elizabeth  this  seemed  but  to  confirm  the  idea 
that  had  forced  itself  on  her;  it  needed,  at  any 
rate,  little  perspicacity  to  see  that  her  stepmother, 
with  the  prospect  of  dining  alone  with  Sir  Henry, 
wanted  her  to  keep  the  engagement  which,  in  defer- 
ence to  her  desire,  she  had  abandoned.  Nor  was 
she  surprised  at  the  tenderness  that  followed.  Mrs. 
Fanshawe  rose  in  willowy  fashion  from  her  chair 
and  stood  behind  Elizabeth's,  gently  stroking  her 
hair. 

"I  want  you  to  enjoy  all  the  pleasures  that  I  can 
contrive  for  you,  dear,"  she  said.  "He  whom  we 
both  miss  so  dreadfully,  I  know  would  wish  us  to 
enjoy — 'richly  to  enjoy,'  does  not  the  Bible  say?  He 
would  have  hated  to  think  that  we  were  going  to 
lose  all  our  gaiety  and  happiness." 

Elizabeth  felt  physically  unable  to  bear  the  touch 
of  that  insincere,  caressing  hand.  She  got  up 
quickly. 


APRIL  EVENING  301 

"Yes,  mamma,"  she  said;  "I  am  sure  of  that.  I 
have  tried  not  to  lose  the  joy  of  life." 

"So  right,  darling!"  said  Mrs.  Fanshawe,  in  a 
dreadful  little  cooing  voice.  "And  we  have  helped 
each  other,  I  hope,  in  that.  I  know  you  have  helped 
me.  I  will  not  let  my  life  be  spoiled  and  broken; 
it  would  grieve  him  so." 

She  paused  a  moment  with  handkerchief-ritual, 
and  with  her  head  a  little  on  one  side,  spoke  with 
childlike  timidity. 

"It  was  lovely  being  taken  care  of  again,"  she 
said,  "though  only  in  a  little  matter  like  having  a 
parcel  carried.  Are  you  going  now,  dear?  Enjoy 
yourself,  my  sweetest,  and  stop  till  the  very  end 
of  your  concert.  I  know  what  a  treat  music  is  to 
you;  I  would  not  have  you  miss  a  note." 

Elizabeth  felt  the  need  of  air  after  this  interview, 
and  having  an  hour  yet  to  spare  before  she  need 
think  of  going  to  the  concert,  went  down  the  broad, 
quiet  street  and  on  to  the  Thames  Embankment  at 
its  lower  end.  She  felt  stifled  by  this  atmosphere  of 
insincerity  from  which  she  had  come;  she  choked 
at  the  pitiful  nauseating  deception  that  she  believed 
almost  deceived  her  stepmother  and  caused  her  to 
refer  to  the  duty  of  behaving  as  her  late  husband 
would  have  had  her  behave,  at  all  her  little  subter- 
fuges for  facilitating  her  own  arrangements.  The 
falseness  of  it  all  was  so  blatant,  so  palpable  that 
it  would  not  have  deceived  a  baby,  and  yet  Eliza- 
beth was  not  wrong  in  thinking  that  it  largely  de- 
ceived the  very  author  of  it.  Her  acting  might  not 
appear  at  all  life-like  to  her  audience,  but  it  seemed 
real  to  herself.  For  years  she  had,  while  diligently 
pursuing  paths  of  complete  selfishness,  been  em- 
ployed, so  to  speak,  on  modelling  a  figure  of  her- 
self, that  was  winning,  child-like,  and  trustingly 


302  ARUXDEL 

devoted  to  the  love  of  others,  and  now  regarding 
that,  with  conscious  approval,  she  had  come  to  be- 
lieve that  it  was  the  very  image  of  herself.  And 
Elizabeth  felt  sure  (and  again  was  not  mistaken) 
that  Mrs.  Fanshawe  was  even  now  getting  herself 
into  another  graceful  pose  for  the  reception  of  Sir 
Henry.  To  say  that  she  was  deliberately  laying 
herself  out  to  attract  him  would  have  been  the 
coarsely  true  way  of  putting  it,  but  things  that  were 
coarse  and  things  that  were  true  were  almost  equally 
abhorrent  to  Mrs.  Fanshawe's  mind.  She  told  her- 
self that  she  owed  a  great  debt  to  Sir  Henry  for  his 
kindness  and  sympathy  at  her  husband's  death,  a 
debt  that  she  would  never  be  able  to  repay.  She 
was  bound  to  treat  him  as  an  old  friend,  to  confide 
in  him  her  plans  for  the  future;  to  tell  him  how  she 
was  "oh,  so  content"  to  live  quietly  here,  devoting 
her  life  to  Elizabeth,  who  was  so  sweet  to  her.  And 
she  would  somehow  make  it  appear  that  it  was  her 
own  sweetness,  not  Elizabeth's,  that  she  was  really 
talking  about.  She  would  hint  that  she  was  a  great 
deal  alone,  but  that  it  was  by  her  own  wish  that 
Elizabeth  spent  so  many  evenings  enjoying  herself 
with  hearing  music.  Elizabeth  was  right,  "oh,  so 
right!"  to  do  it.  And  Ehzabeth,  thinking  over  these 
things,  executed  a  few  wild  dance  steps  on  a  lonely 
piece  of  the  Embankment,  from  sheer  irritation  at 
the  thought.  She  wondered  also  whether  her  step- 
mother would  show  Sir  Henry  the  written  chapters 
of  the  Memoir.    She  rather  thought  not. 

This  little  ebullition  of  temper  passed,  and  she 
let  her  mind  quiet  down  again  as  she  leaned  her 
elbows  on  the  stone  balustrade  and  looked  out  over 
the  beautiful  river,  which  brimmed  and  swirled  just 
below,  for  the  tide,  near  to  full  flood,  was  pouring 
up  from  the  sea,  still  fresh  and  strong  and  un- 
wearied by  its  journey.     Barges  were  drifting  up 


APRIL  EVENING  303 

with  it  in  a  comfortable,  haphazard  sort  of  fashion, 
and  a  great  company  of  sea-gulls  hovered  near,  chid- 
ing and  wheeling  together.  The  hour  was  a  little 
after  sunset,  and  the  whole  sky  was  bright  with 
mackerel-markings  of  rosy  cloud,  and  the  tawny 
river,  reflecting  these,  was  covered  with  glows  and 
gleams.  Opposite,  the  trees  in  the  park  were  dim 
in  the  mist  of  fresh  green  that  lay  over  them,  blur- 
ring the  outlines  which  all  the  winter  had  stood 
stark  and  clear-cut  under  cold,  grey  skies.  And  the 
triumphant  tide  of  springtime  which  flushed  every- 
thing with  the  tingle  of  new  growth,  unfolding  the 
bells  of  the  tulips  in  the  patches  of  riverside  garden, 
and  making  the  sparrows  busy  with  gathering  sticks 
and  straws  for  their  nestings,  sent  a  sudden  thrill 
through  Elizabeth's  heart,  and  she  was  conscious 
again,  as  she  had  not  been  for  many  weary  weeks, 
of  the  youth  and  glory  of  the  world.  From  the 
great  sea  of  life  came  the  vivifying  wave,  covering 
for  the  moment  the  brown  seaweed  tangle  of  her 
trouble  that  had  lain  dry  and  sun-baked  so  long, 
flushing  and  freshening  and  uplifting  it. 

Relieved  of  its  irritation,  and  refreshed  by  this 
good  moment  of  spring  evening,  her  mind  went  back 
to  her  stepmother.  She  felt  sure  that  it  was  her 
intention  to  marry  that  jolly  old  warrior,  if  it  could 
possibly  be  managed,  and  that  she  was  going  to 
employ  all  her  art  in  the  shape  of  her  artlessness 
and  simplicity  to  bring  that  about.  It  was  but 
eight  months  since  her  husband  had  died,  but,  aft^r 
all,  what  did  that  matter?  The  actual  lapse  of 
time  had  very  little  to  do  with  the  question,  and 
she  would  be  sure  to  have  touching  and  convincing 
reasons  for  such  a  step.  It  had  seemed  horrible 
at  first  to  Elizabeth,  but  where,  after  all,  was  the 
horror?  Of  course,  her  dead  husband  would  have 
wished  her  to  be  happy.    Elizabeth  knew  her  father 


304  ARUNDEL 

well  enough  to  know  that,  and  it  was  only  horrible 
that  she  should  give  (as  she  undoubtedly  would) 
as  a  reason  for  her  marr\'ing  again  what  she  knew 
his  wishes  would  be  on  the  subject.  Whether  Sir 
Henry  would  be  brought  up  to  the  point  was  an- 
other matter,  and  on  this  Elizabeth  had  no  evidence 
except  her  stepmother's  account  of  their  meeting. 
But  clearly  Mrs.  Fanshawe  thought  that  things 
promised  well. 

Elizabeth's  eyes  suddenly  filled  with  tears.  Only 
once  had  the  grass  sprung  up  on  that  far-distant 
grave;  not  yet  had  the  Memoir,  so  quickly  taken  in 
hand,  been  completed. 

"Daddy,  daddy!"  she  said  aloud. 

She  turned  from  the  rosy  river,  and  set  out  to 
walk  down  the  Embankment  to  the  next  bridge, 
from  where  she  proposed  to  take  the  conveyance 
that  had  tlirilled  her  stepmother  that  afternoon  with 
a  sense  of  incredible  adventure.  The  pavement 
stretched  empty  and  darkening  in  front  of  her,  and 
at  the  far  end  the  lamjilightcr  had  started  on  his 
luminous  round.  Some  two  hundred  yards  off  a 
figure  was  walking  quickly  towards  her,  and  long 
before  she  could  distinguish  face  or  feature,  Eliza- 
beth, with  heart  in  sudden  tumult,  saw  who  it  was. 
Almost  at  the  same  moment  she  saw  him  pause  sud- 
denly in  his  rapid  progress,  and  halt  as  if  undeter- 
mined whether  or  no  to  turn  and  retrace  his  steps. 
But  he  came  on  again,  and  soon  they  stood  face 
to  face.  All  the  tumult  in  her  had  died  down  again; 
she  held  out  her  hand  with  the  friendliest,  most  un- 
embarrassed smile. 

.'."At  last,  Edward!"  she  said.  "And  we  shall  meet 
again  soon.  Aunt  Julia  has  asked  mamma  and  me 
down  for  next  Sunday." 

He  looked  at  her  a  moment  without  speaking. 


APRIL  EVENING  305 

She  saw  that  his  breath  came  quickly  as  if  he  had 
been  running. 

"I  know.  She  told  me  she  was  going  to  write,"  he 
said. 

"She  met  mamma  this  afternoon,  and  said  it 
instead." 

"Must  I  go  away?"  he  asked.  "Of  course  I  will 
if  you  wish  it.    But — but  mayn't  I  see  you  again?" 

At  his  voice,  at  the  entreaty  in  his  eyes,  all  but 
her  love  for  him,  unstained  and  bright-burning,  van- 
ished utterly. 

"Yes,  why  not,  if  you  want  to?"  she  said.  "But 
I  shall  understand  so  well  if  you  do  not." 

"I  have  wanted  nothing  else  every  day,"  he  said. 

All  her  heart  went  out  to  him. 

"Aren't  you  happy,  dear?"  she  said. 

"How  can  you  ask  that?" 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said  simply.     "And  Edith?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  know  anything  about  her. 
I  try  to  be  kind  and  nice  to  her.    In  fact  I  am." 

A  wretched,  quivering  smile  broke  out  on  the 
girl's  face. 

"Conceit!"  she  said.  "I'm  glad  we  have  met, 
Edward,  for  we  had  to  get  this  over,  you  know. 
Well,  it's  over." 

They  stood  in  silence  a  moment.  Then  suddenly 
he  broke  out — 

"Why  wouldn't  you  trust  your  own  heart,  Eliza- 
beth, and  let  me  trust  mine?  What  good  has  come 
of  it  all?  What  has  come  of  it  but  wretchedness? 
I  don't  ask  if  you  are  happy.    I  know  you  aren't." 

"No.  But  you  kept  faith.  That  good  has  come 
of  it.  Don't  say  those  things.  It  isn't  the  best  of 
you  that  says  them.    And  w^hat  are  you  doing  here?" 

"I  often  walk  this  way,"  he  said.  "Then  I  go  up 
Oakley  Street.  The  evenings  are  getting  light  now. 
Do  you  mind  my  doing  that?" 


306  ARUNDEL 

Then  something  swelled  in  her  throat  forbidding 
speech. 

"I — I  must  go  on,"  she  said  at  length. 

"May  I  walk  with  you  a  little?" 

"To  the  corner.    I  shall  take  a  'bus  there." 

There  was  but  a  little  way  to  go.  and  they  stood 
together,  waiting  for  the  'bus,  looking  at  the  dark- 
ling river,  down  which  poured  the  wild  west  wind. 

"Sea-gulls."  she  said  to  him,  pointing.  "Sea-gulls 
and  spring.  Edward." 

And  she  mounted  quickly  up  the  winding  iron 
stairs,  not  looking  back.  13ut  as  the  'bus  swung 
round  a  corner  a  little  distance  up  the  road  she 
could  not  resist  turning  round.  He  was  still  there 
at  the  corner  where  she  had  left  him.  a  minute  speck 
on  the  pavement  that  glowed  in  the  rose-coloured 
sunset,  so  minute,  so  significant.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  all  of  her  essential  self,  her  heart,  her  power 
of  love,  was  standing  there  with  him;  that  he  gazed 
but  at  an  empty  wraith  of  herself  who  sat  on  the 
pounding,  swaying  'bus,  while  she  stood  by  his  side 
as  the  spring  evening  darkened  and  the  sea-gulls 
hovered  and  wheeled. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

THE  GRISLY   KITTENS 

Elizabeth,  as  requested  by  her  stepmother,  did  not 
leave  her  concert  that  night  until  the  very  last  note 
of  all  had  died  away.  But  it  is  doubtful  whether 
that  request  had  very  much  to  do  with  it:  the  proba- 
bility is  that  she  was  really  incapable  of  doing  so. 
Just  as  the  hypnotized  subject  has  his  will  taken 
possession  of  by  his  controller,  so  that  all  his  wishes, 
his  intentions,  his  desires  are  for  the  time  in  abey- 
ance and  the  independence  of  his  own  powers  com- 
pletely paralysed,  so  that  night  Elizabeth  was  taken 
captive  by  the  power  of  sound.  Many  times  before 
she  had  felt  that  she  was  penetrating  into  a  new 
kingdom,  a  fresh  province  of  thought  and  feeling, 
but  to-night  a  more  surprising  adventure  held  her 
bound.  She  penetrated  into  no  fresh  kingdoms,  she 
saw  no  new  peaks  upraise  themselves  or  valleys 
carve  themselves  at  her  feet.  She  was  completely 
in  familiar  places;  only  a  fresh  light,  one  that  for 
her  had  never  lit  sea  or  land,  shone  on  them,  which 
transfigured  them  not  by  fantastic  effects  and  the 
sensationalism  of  musical  limelights,  but  with  the 
dawning  as  of  the  everlasting  day. 

She  was  unconsciously  prepared  for  this,  as  she 
had  never  been  before.  She,  or  a  hundred  others 
whose  souls  were  steeped  with  the  love  of  melody, 
might  have  heard  just  w^hat  she  heard  that  night, 
and  have  had  their  tastes  gratified,  their  emotions 
roused,  without  being  gripped  in  this  manner  so 
supreme,  so  enlightening.     New  sensations  might 

307 


308  ARUNDEL 

have  flitted  through  her,  new  beauties  been  per- 
ceived, new  glories  been  manifested,  without  this 
ethical  perception  being  awakened.  But  with  her 
to-night,  all  the  (luiet  patience  of  these  past  months, 
of  the  succession  of  dark  and  difficult  days,  to  solve 
the  meaning  of  which  she  had  applied  herself  with 
efforts  and  strivings  after  the  light,  so  unremitting, 
so  unnoticed,  had  rendered  her  caj)ablc  of  receiv- 
ing the  true  illumination.  Cell  by  cell,  she  had 
stored  honey  in  the  dark;  now  with  the  coming  of 
spring,  the  workers  of  her  soul  swarmed  out  with 
rush  of  joyous  wings  into  the  light.  She  was  charged 
to  the  brim  with  supersaturated  waters;  it  wanted 
but  the  one  atom  the  more  to  be  added* that  should 
solidify  all  that  had  been  put  into  her,  all  that  by 
the  grace  of  God  she  had  gathered.  Probably  the 
meeting  with  Edward  gave  her  the  last  crystal  of 
the  salt,  took  out  from  her  love  the  grain  of  bitter- 
ness that  still  lurked  there.  That  made  her  ready 
to  receive  the  ultimate  gift  that  music  has  to  bring, 
namely,  the  identification  of  it  with  all  other  noble 
effort,  the  perception  of  its  truth,  which  is  one  with 
the  truth  of  everything  that  is  beautiful,  and  is  lit 
by  the  light  that  illuminates  the  whole  world,  and 
turns  it  into  the  garden  of  God.  Never  again  in 
those  on  whom  one  gleam  of  the  light  has  shone  can 
it  be  wholly  quenched.  For  the  future  they  know 
from  their  own  selves,  from  the  recollection  of  the 
one  thing  in  the  world  which  it  is  impossible  to  for- 
get, that  whatever  storms  of  adversity,  thunder- 
clouds of  trouble  lower,  there  is  no  such  thing  any 
more  for  them  as  a  darkness  quite  untransfused,  no 
place  so  slippery  that  they  can  doubt  whether  their 
feet  are  set  on  a  rock  and  their  goings  ordered. 

The  hall  was  but  half-filled,  and  EHzabeth.  seated 
at  the  back  of  the  amphitheatre,  saw  she  would  be 
uncurabered  with  the  distraction  of  near  neighbours. 


THE  GRISLY  KITTENS  309 

The  concert  opened  with  the  Third  Symphony  of 
Brahms,  and  immediately  she  was  carried  into  it. 
Even  as  one  who  looks  at  some  superb  statue  has 
his  mind  modelled,  as  it  were,  into  the  image  of 
what  he  sees,  so  that  his  body  can,  faintly  following, 
unconsciously  drop  into  a  pose  somewhat  like  it,  so, 
listening  to  this,  she  was  made  one  with  it,  fused 
into  it,  so  that,  while  it  sang  its  message  U)  her,  she 
knew  of  no  existence  separate  from  it.  Her  mind, 
her  nature  became  part  of  it;  she,  like  a  sheet  of 
calm  waters,  burned  with  the  glories  of  the  melodi- 
ous sky.  She  became  godlike,  as  she  inhaled  that 
ampler  ether  of  glorifieci  intellect  through  music, 
which  perhaps  alone  of  the  arts  can  make  wholly 
visible  to  the  spiritual  eye  the  wonder  and  the 
beauty  of  pure  and  abstract  thought.  No  longer 
did  its  melodies  suggest  images  to  her;  her  brain 
strove  not  aft^r  similes  to  express,  as  it  were,  in 
mere  black  and  white  tlie  efifect  of  the  rainbow  song; 
it  revealed  itself,  mind. 

Then  the  hall  swam  into  sight  again;  there  was 
applause.  It  sounded  quite  meaningless;  you  did 
not  clap  your  hands  when  daylight  came. 

There  were  but  three  items  in  the  programme,  and 
for  the  second,  the  grand  piano  in  front  of  the  stage 
was  opened.  The  player  was  familiar  enough  to 
her,  he  with  his  magical  fingers  and  exuberant 
youth,  but  just  now  he  seemed  a  detached  and  im- 
personal figure,  as  nameless  as  the  viol-holding 
cherubim  in  a  canvas  of  Bellini,  who  make  music 
for  the  reverie  of  the  saints  and  angels  who  stand 
on  either  side  of  the  IMother  of  God.  But  it  was 
no  song  of  heavenly  soul  and  sexless  quires  that  he 
was  to  sing;  he  was  the  interpreter  of  the  joy  of  life 
and  of  love  and  of  the  myriad  emotions  that  spring 
like  flowers  from  the  fruitful  earth.  Brahms  had 
revealed  what  is  possible  to  the  wise  mind  of  man, 


310  ARUNDEL 

here  in  the  great  concerto  Tschaikowsky  poured  out 
the  inspired  tale  of  its  emotions;  the  splendour  of 
their  shining,  the  tenderness  of  their  reveries.  In- 
stantly in  the  presence  of  this  more  concrete,  more 
frail  and  human  music  the  images  leaped  and 
danced  again  in  Elizabeth's  mind.  The  noonday 
shone  on  the  innumerable  smile  of  a  blue  sea;  high 
above  the  sultry  plain  were  fixed  the  spear-heads  of 
Chitral;  the  dusk  fell  on  the  Indian  garden  with  its 
tangle  of  Peshawar  roses.  More  personal  yet  grew 
the  appeal.  She  walked  with  her  father  there;  she 
showed  him,  as  never  yet  had  it  been  given  her  to 
show  him,  how  love  had  touched  her,  even  as  he 
had  said,  with  its  enchantment,  how  the  loyalty  of 
her  renunciation  of  it-s  material  fulfilment  had  not 
witlieretl  its  stem,  but  caused  it  to  blossom  with  a 
rarer  and  more  fragrant  flowering.  She  told  him 
how  the  bitter  waters  had  been  sweetened,  how  the 
sting  had  been  sheathed,  how  through  darkness  love 
had  felt  its  way  up  to  the  day.  With  tender  glance 
at  the  pain  of  it  that  was  passed  they  dwelt  on  it; 
with  smiles  for  her  miscomprehension  of  its  growth, 
for  her  ignorance  of  where  it  led  they  traced  its 
springing  tendrils,  on  which  there  were  the  traces  of 
healed  scars  where  it  had  bled.  But  its  bleeding  was 
over,  and  strong  grew  its  shoots  over  unsightly 
places.  The  whole  world  dancerl  together,  not  men 
and  women  only,  not  only  boys  and  girls,  but  sun 
and  sea  and  sky,  and  the  lions  in  the  desert  and  the 
tigers  burning  bright  in  the  jungle.  The  peaks  and 
ledges  of  untrodden  snow  danced  in  a  whirling 
magical  maze  of  rhythmic  movement.  The  angels 
of  God  joined  in  it;  the  devils  of  hell  would  have 
done  so  had  there  been  such  things  as  devils,  or  such 
a  place  as  hell.  Again  the  music  grew  more  per- 
sonal. All  she  had  ever  known  of  joy,  and  that  was 
much,  was  marshalled  round  her,  and  through  the 


THE  GRISLY  KITTENS  311 

dancers,  this  crowd  of  earthly  elements,  came  he 
whom  every  nerve  and  agent  of  perception  in  her 
body  loved.  Her  human  power  of  emotion  leaped  to 
the  supremest  arc  of  that  rainbow  curve,  and  with 
him  stood  there  poised.  By  some  divine  right  he 
was  hers,  by  a  right  no  less  divine  he  was  separated 
from  her.  Yet  that  separation  was  somehow  one 
with  the  union. 

Then  followed  a  pause  of  some  ten  minutes.  But 
no  reaction  came  to  her,  for  it  was  no  mimic  show 
that  was  now  over,  no  feigned  dramatic  presentment 
that  she  had  watched  or  listened  to  (she  hardly 
knew  which),  but  something  quite  real,  more  real 
than  the  rows  of  dark  red  stalls,  than  the  shaded 
scarlet  lights,  like  huge  inverted  anemones,  which 
hung  above  the  orchestra,  more  real  even  than  the 
actual  music  itself,  which  was  but  the  husk  or  at 
most  the  temporary  embodiment  of  the  truth  that 
underlay  and  illumined  it.  She  had  been  shown 
the  vision  of  mhid  at  its  highest,  of  emotion  in  its 
supremest  degree.  There  was  something  still  lack- 
ing, which  should  bind  them  together,  exhibit  them, 
as  they  truly  were,  parts  of  an  infinite  whole.  She 
knew  what  was  coming,  and  with  the  tenseness  of 
an  expectation  that  must  be  fulfilled,  with  a  sus- 
pense that  was  not  the  less  for  the  certainty  of  its 
coming  resolution,  she  waited. 

Half  an  hour  later  she  came  out  into  the  mellow 
spring  night,  that  teemed  with  the  promise  of  the 
south-west  wind.  Just  as  the  Brahms  symphony 
had  summed  up  for  her  the  glory  of  mind,  and  the 
Tschaikowsky  concerto  had  sung  of  the  depth  and 
sunlit  splendours  of  human  emotion,  so  the  Good 
Friday  music  had  bridged  and  connected  the  two, 
and  shown  her  whence  came  the  light  that  shone  on 
them.  But  whereas  the  concerto  had  led  her 
through  generalities  to  its  culmination  of  the  ap- 


312  ARUNDEL 

peal  to  her  own  individual  personality,  and  its  needs 
and  longings,  in  this  she  was  led  across  the  dim 
threshold  of  herself,  so  to  speak,  into  the  halls  that 
were  full  of  light,  into  the  house  of  many  man- 
sions. Vivid  and  ecstatic  at  first  had  been  the  sense 
of  her  own  intense  experience;  she  was  bathed  in 
sun  and  sea,  and  then  was  opened  to  her  a  com- 
munion of  soul  with  those  she  loved  that  trans- 
cended all  she  had  ever  felt  before.  And  yet.  very 
soon,  that  faded  into  nothingness,  it  passed  off  the 
shield  of  her  perception,  as  a  breath  is  dispersed  in 
frosty  air;  soon  she  was  no  longer  the  centre  of  her 
consciousness,  but  only  an  atom  of  infinite  insignifi- 
cance in  it.  It  was  no  revelation  of  hcrsdf  that  was 
thus  manifested,  yet  inasmuch  as  she  was  part  of  the 
vital  essence  of  the  love  that  crowned  the  human 
understanding,  tiie  human  passions,  inasmuch  as  she 
could  give  thanks  for  its  great  glory,  that  glory  was 
part  of  her,  her  love  part  of  it.  One  and  indivisible 
it  stirred  in  her,  even  as  it  moved  the  sun  and  all 
the  stars.  .  .  . 

It  was  with  no  sense  of  interruptions  or  of  a 
broken  mood  that  she  came  out  into  the  jostling  of 
the  populous  streets,  for  truth  is  not  a  mood,  and 
they  with  their  crowded  pavements  and  whirring 
roadways  were  part  of  it  also,  and  knew  her  solemn 
and  joyful  secret.  Without  doubt  she  would  not 
always  be  able  to  feel  with  the  same  vividness  of 
perception  that  the  eternal  peace  encompassed  her, 
but.  having  once  realized  it,  she  knew  that  it  would 
be  there  always,  a  sure  refuge,  that  it  was  the  an- 
swer to  all  the  riddles  and  difficulties  that  life  as- 
suredly would  continue  to  ply  her  with.  Again  and 
again,  she  knew,  they  would  puzzle  and  perplex  her, 
again  and  again  she  would  be  mist-blinded  by  them. 
But  she  had  seen  an  authentic  glimpse,  as  from 
Pisgah,  of  the  kingdom  to  which  led  the  royal  roads. 


THE  GRISLY  KITTENS  313 

They  might  wind  over  stony  hill-sides,  be  packed 
with  sand,  or  clogged  with  resistant  mire,  but  they 
led  to  the  promised  land,  to  the  kingdom  that  was 
within,  the  gates  of  which  stood  open  night  and  day, 
for  all  who  willed  to  enter. 

It  was  late,  already  after  eleven,  when  she  dis- 
mounted from  the  'bus  at  the  corner  of  Oakley 
Street,  and  she  half  expected  to  find  that  her  step- 
mother had  gone  to  bed.  It  must  be  allowed  that 
Elizabeth  would  not  have  been  very  sorry  if  this 
proved  to  be  the  case,  for  she  felt  that  she  could  give 
but  a  vague  attention  to  the  voluble  trivialities  that 
would  otherwise  await  her.  But  not  till  she  had 
softly  closed  the  street  door  behind  her,  did  she 
bring  into  focus  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Fanshawe  had 
been  dining  alone  with  Sir  Henry,  or  that  the  volu- 
ble trivialities  might  be  supplanted  by  news  not 
trivial  at  all. 

The  idea  when  first  it  had  occurred  to  her  had 
repelled  her,  with  the  repulsion  that  a  deep  love 
must  naturally  feel  for  any  self-conscious  and  shal- 
low affection.  There  was  a  sort  of  heait-breaking 
jar  in  the  thought  that  Mrs.  Fanshawe,  with  her 
pen  still  dipping  for  ink  to  write  the  Memoir,  should 
be  thinking  about  re-marriage.  But  now  the  re- 
pulsion had  left  her;  she  found  herself  less  jealous 
for  her  father's  memory,  more  ready  to  let  the  im- 
mortality of  love  look  after  itself,  more  capable  of 
sinking  her  personal  feeling.  It  was  not  that  the 
idea  had  lost  its  sharp  edges  from  her  greater  fa- 
miliarity with  it;  she  saw  it  as  distinctly  as  ever; 
only  the  sharp  edges  now  failed  to  fret  her.  Be- 
sides, how  could  the  shallowness  of  her  stepmother's 
affections,  the  insincerity  that  in  itself  was  of  so 
unreal  a  nature,  affect  anything  that  was  real? 

Mrs.  Fanshawe  had  not  gone  to  bed,  but  was  sit- 
ting in  a  very  pretty  pensive  attitude  (hastily  as- 


314  ARUNDEL 

sumed  when  she  heard  Elizabeth's  step  on  the 
stairs)  over  a  brisk  little  fire,  in  front  of  which  was 
standing  in  the  fender  a  small  covered  dish.  She 
had  put  on  a  white  bedroom  wrapper  with  little 
black  bows  of  ribbon;  her  long,  abundant  hair 
streamed  over  her  shoulders;  there  was  never  so 
bewitching  a  little  widow.  She  held  out  her  arm 
with  a  welcoming  gesture  as  Elizabeth  entered. 

"Darling,  how  late  you  are!"  she  said.  "But  if 
you  have  been  enjoying  yourself  that  is  all  I  ask  of 
you.  I  could  not  bear  to  think  that  my  little  Eliza- 
beth should  come  in  and  find  a  silent  house,  with  no 
one  to  welcome  her  home." 

She  got  up  and  gave  EUzabeth  a  little  butterfly 
kiss. 

"See,  dear.  I  lit  the  fire  for  you  with  my  own 
hands,  so  that  your  supper  might  keep  warm.  There 
is  a  napkin  which  I  spread  for  a  tablecloth,  and  a 
little  rack  of  toast,  and  some  lemonade  with  plenty 
of  sugar  in  it,  and  just  the  wing  of  a  chicken,  which 
I  saved  for  you.  and  ate  a  leg  mysc^lf  instead.  And 
a  little  bunch  of  grapes  to  follow  and  some  ginger- 
bread cake.  And  while  you  eat,  dear,  you  shall  tell 
me  all  about  your  concert.  Fancy  if  some  day  you 
played  at  a  concert  at  the  Queen's  Hall.  How  proud 
I  should  be!  And  should  I  not  burst  ray  gloves  in 
applauding?" 

To  "tell  all  about  the  concert"  was  a  somewhat 
extensive  suggestion,  but  there  was  no  need  for 
Elizabeth  to  reply,  as  Mrs.  Fanshawe  went  on  with- 
out pause. 

"I  could  not  attend  to  anything,  dear,"  she  said, 
"until  I  had  quite  settled  in  my  mind  what  would  be 
the  nicest  little  supper  I  could  think  of  for  you.  I 
had  quite  a  little  squabble  with  Sir  Henry  about 
eating  a  leg  myself,  though  I  assured  him  that  all 
epicures  prefer  the  leg.    And  he  helped  me  to  light 


THE  GRISLY  KITTENS  315 

the  fire;  I  assure  you,  he  was  as  zealous  on  your 
behalf  as  I  was.  And  he  told  me  to  be  sure  and 
give  you  his  love,  if  I  did  not  think  you  would  con- 
sider that  a  liberty." 

"Thank  you,  mamma,"  said  the  girl.  "And  it  was 
good  of  you  to  take  so  much  thought  for  me.  I 
almost  expected  to  find  you  had  gone  to  bed;  I  am 
so  late.  I  suppose  Sir  Henrj'  has  been  gone  some 
time?" 

"A  quarter  of  an  hour  ago  perhaps.  I  had  not 
more  than  time  to  take  off  my  dress  and  brush  my 
hair.  But  I  could  not  go  without  a  peep  at  you 
when  you  returned.  And  I  promised  myself  a  little 
cosy  talk  over  the  fire  when  you  had  finished  your 
supper." 

Elizabeth  left  the  table  and  sat  down  in  a  big 
arm-chair  near  Mrs.  Fanshawe.  The  latter  took 
Elizabeth's  hand  as  it  lay  on  the  arm,  and  held  it 
in  both  of  hers. 

"I  have  been  thinking  of  you  so  much,  dear," 
she  said,  "all  the  time  dear  Sir  Henry  was  here. 
You  have  been  in  my  mind  every  minute.  Such  a 
wise,  kind  man  he  is,  and  so  full  of  sympathy  and 
tenderness  for  me.  And  he  shows  it  with  such  won- 
derful tact,  not  by  dwelling  on  my  great  loss,  but 
by  encouraging  me  and  cheering  me  up.  I  declare 
I  laughed  outright  as  I  have  not  done  for  months 
at  some  of  his  delicious,  droll  stories.  He  is  the  sort 
of  man  to  whom  one  can  open  one's  heart  com- 
pletely. All  kinds  of  things  we  talked  about — about 
old,  dear,  happy  days,  and  about  India,  and  oh, 
Elizabeth,  how  I  long  to  see  dear  India  again!  He 
quoted  something  which  I  thought  so  true,  about 
hearing  the  East  a-calling,  and  said  it  ought  to  be 
'when  you  hear  the  East  a-bawling.'  Was  not  that 
quaint  of  him?  The  East  a-bawhng!  Yes.  That  is 
just  what  it  does.    Dear,  happy  days  in  India,  with 


316  ARUNDEL 

all  its  pleasant  parties  and  society  and  balls !  I  miss 
the  gaiety  of  it  all  in  our  sad,  secluded  life  here  in 
this  little  tiny  house.  Why,  the  drawing-room  is 
not  much  bigger  than  my  bathroom  was  at  Pesha- 
war. I  think  that  I  am  naturally  of  a  gay  and  joy- 
ous nature,  dear.    I  was  not  made  for  sadness." 

Apparently  Mrs.  Fanshawe  was  taking  a  rest 
from  thinking  about  Elizabeth  all  the  evening.  She 
seemed  to  realize  this  and  hurried  back  to  her  sub- 
ject. 

"And  if  it  is  sad  for  me,  how  much  more  sad  it 
must  be  for  you,  darling,  for  you  used  to  enjoy  your- 
self so  in  India  with  your  horses  and  dpgs.  I  am 
sure  you  used  to  laugh  fifty  times  a  day  out  there, 
for  once  that  I  hear  you  laugh  now.  But  it  is  not 
only  of  your  loss  of  gaiety  that  I  have  been  think- 
ing so  much.  There  are  things  more  important  than 
that,  especially  while  you  are  young.  The  loss  of 
your  father's  care  and  thought  for  you  makes  such 
a  dreadful  blank,  and  I,  weighed  down  with  all  the 
petty  cares  and  economies  which  we  have  to  prac- 
tise, cannot  look  after  you  as  constantly  as  I  used. 
My  days  are  so  full  with  the  care  of  the  house,  and 
with  writing  your  dear  father's  Memoir,  which  all 
these  weeks  has  been  to  me  nothing  less  than  a 
sacred  duty.  And  even  if  I  was  quite  free,  it  would 
be  impossible  for  me,  a  little  weak,  silly,  helpless 
woman,  to  supervise  your  growing  up  with  the  wis- 
dom and  large  grasp  of  a  man.  I  have  been  doing 
my  best,  I  think  I  can  say  that,  but  I  know  how 
feeble  and  wanting  my  best  has  been." 

There  had  been  no  opportunity,  so  continuous  had 
been  the  prattle  of  this  monologue,  for  Elizabeth 
to  speak  at  all.  For  this  she  was  grateful,  for  she 
would  have  found  it  difficult  enough  to  frame  any 
sincere  reply  to  this  endless  tissue  of  insincerities 
that  were  only  half-conscious  of  themselves.    Mrs. 


THE  GRISLY  KITTENS  317 

Fanshawe  had  been  so  long  accustomed  to  look 
upon  the  utterly  inaccurate  picture  of  herself,  of 
which  she  was  the  artist,  so  long  unaccustomed  to 
look  on  the  actual  origin  of  it,  that  she  really  had 
got  to  confuse  the  two,  or,  rather,  to  obliterate  the 
one  in  favour  of  the  imaginary  portrait.  But  to- 
night Elizabeth  did  not  feel  the  smallest  resentment 
at  this  imposture;  she  regarded  her  mother  as  she 
would  have  regarded  some  charade-acting  child,  and 
was  willing  to  encourage  its  belief  in  the  reality  of 
its  acting.  For  Mrs.  Fanshawe,  as  for  a  child,  this 
dressing-up  was  real.  And  Elizabeth  could  almost 
see  her  father  listening  with  a  smile  that  for  all  its 
tenderness  did  not  lack  humour.  He  would  have 
been  amused,  surely,  at  it  all.  For  all  his  own  sim- 
plicity and  sincerity,  he  had  never  wanted  to  im- 
prove and  edify  others.  At  the  most  he  only  en- 
couraged them,  like  the  beloved  plants  in  his  gar- 
den, to  grow  and  blossom.  Besides,  he  had  loved  his 
wife  (for  the  life  of  her  Elizabeth  had  never  been 
able  to  guess  why),  and  that  simple  fact — a  fact 
which  no  one  should  try  to  explain  away — took 
precedence  of  everything  else. 

There  was  a  pause  for  a  few  gentle  applications 
of  a  very  small  lace  handkerchief,  and  it  became  in- 
cumbent on  Elizabeth  to  say  something.  She  knew, 
of  course,  perfectly  well  what  her  stepmother  was 
leading  up  to,  and  since  she  appeared  to  find  it 
difficult  to  come  to  the  point,  Elizabeth  decided  to 
help  her. 

"And  so  you  and  Sir  Henry "  she  began. 

That  was  quite  enough.  Mrs.  Fanshawe  rose 
swiftly  from  her  chair,  bent  over  her,  and  kissed 
her. 

"My  darling,  yes,"  she  said.  "And  I  am  so  glad 
you  have  guessed.  I  was  so  afraid  it  would  come 
as  a  shock  to  you,  that  I  only  promised  Henry  that 


818  ARUXDEL 

I  would  tell  you  to-night,  if  I  could.  I  said  he  must 
trust  to  my  instinct,  as  to  whether  I  should  not  only 
begin  to  prepare  you  for  it.  I  told  him  that  he 
could  not  know,  as  I  knew,  how  deeply  you  loved 
your  father,  and  that  I  must  judge  whether  to  tell 
you  at  once  or  not.  I  said  I  would  not  wound  my 
dear  little  Elizabeth's  heart  for  anything.  But  now 
you  have  guessed,  how  nice  that  is!  And,  oh,  what 
a  true  and  wise  friend  and  second  father  you  will 
find  in  him,  Elizabeth!  Do  you  wonder  now,  my 
darling,  that  I  said  how  much  I  had  been  thinking 
of  you  all  this  evening!" 

Suddenly  it  was  borne  in  upon  the  girl  that  this 
play-acting  was  really  going  too  far.  *  It  seemed 
impermissible  to  allow  even  a  child  to  take  its  in- 
ventions quite  so  seriously.  It  was  as  if  the  child 
insisted  on  having  real  solid  food  and  real  cham- 
pagne provided  for  its  pasteboard  banquet.  Yet, 
yet — was  there  any  gain  to  any  one  in  saying.  "Re- 
member, you  are  only  acting?''  She  knew  well  there 
was  not.  Detection  and  exposure  of  even  such 
abominable  insincerities  as  these  never  yet  did  any 
good  to  the — the  criminal.  It  only  made  her  resent 
the  cruel  perspicacity  of  their  exposer,  or  possibly 
exercise  a  little  more  ingenuity  in  their  inventions. 
She  would  be  wiser  to  enter  into  the  spirit  of  these 
imaginative  flights.  But  it  was  like  seeing  some- 
body waving  his  arms,  saying,  "See,  I  am  a  bird; 
how  high  I  fly!"  and  pretending  to  look  upwards 
and  be  dazzled  and  made  giddy  by  this  reckless  feat 
of  aviation. 

"It  was  sweet  of  you  to  think  of  me  as  well,"  was 
as  much  as  could  humanly  be  expected  of  the  best 
intentions. 

That  did  not  nearly  satisfy  Mrs.  Fanshawe. 

"My  dear,  my  central  thought  was  of  you,"  she 


THE  GRISLY  KITTENS  319 

declared.  "Almost  the  first  thing  I  said  to  Henry 
when — when  he  would  not  let  me  go,  for  he  has 
such  an  affectionate  nature,  and  oh,  my  darling, 
how  he  loves  me! — almost  the  first  thing  I  said  was, 
'What  about  Elizabeth?  You  must  not  think  that 
I  have  said  yes  to  you  until  you  assure  me  that 
you  will  be  a  father  to  Elizabeth.'  And  he  said — 
it  was  so  like  him — 'We'll  offer  her  a  grandfather, 
anyhow.  Birdie.'  That  was  what  he  said  he  must 
call  me — his  bright-eyed  little  Birdie — so  foolish  of 
him." 

The  clock  on  the  chimney-piece  chimed  twelve, 
and  Mrs.  Fanshawe  rose  to  an  apex  of  surprising 
fatuity. 

"Gracious  me,  what  an  hour!"  she  said.  "I  be- 
lieve I  have  not  sat  up  till  twelve  this  last  two 
months.  We  must  go  to  bed,  or  Henry  will  find 
a  dull-eyed  little  Birdie  when  he  comes  back  in 
the  morning,  and  will  never  love  her  any  more.  He 
will  think  he  has  made  a  great  mistake,  and  want 
to  marry  Elizabeth  instead.  Dear  Henry!  I  shall 
tease  him  about  that  but  only  just  for  a  minute.  I 
w^ould  not  vex  his  big,  loving  heart  for  anything." 

She  looked  at  Elizabeth  with  an  expression  that 
she  was  familiar  with  in  her  imaginary  portraits  of 
herself,  an  expression  which  she  called  wistful. 

"Of  course  I  shall  not  dream  of  marrying  until  a 
whole  year  has  passed,"  she  said,  "nor,  I  am  sure, 
would  my  Henry  wish  me  to.  He  knows  what  a 
tender  heart  I  have  for  my  beloved  memories.  But 
I  think,  dear,  that  I  shall  put  the  Memoir  on  one 
side,  or  perhaps  give  it  to  your  Aunt  Julia  to  deal 
with  as  she  likes.  I  dare  say  she  would  be  glad  of 
something  to  do  in  her  poor,  empty  life.  I  will 
take  it  down  with  me  on  Friday.  Perhaps  it  has 
done  its  work." 

She  did  not  explain  exactly  what  this  last  sen- 


320  ARUXDEL 

tence  meant,  and  as  there  was  no  explanation  what- 
ever of  it,  except  that  it  seemed  to  finish  up  with 
the  Memoir  in  a  vague  and  beautiful  manner,  it 
would  have  been  idle  to  attempt  any. 

"So  sleep  well,  my  precious!"  she  said,  kissing 
Elizabeth.  "I  think  you  will  do  that,  won't  you, 
now  that  all  our  little  anxieties  are  removed?  He 
is  really  immensely  well-off.  What  a  responsibility 
that  will  be  for  me!  I  hope  I  shall  prove  not  quite 
unworthy  of  it." 

Mrs.  Hancock  had  never  seen  much  of  her  sister- 
in-law,  and  perhaps  she  would  not  have  been  so 
kindly  disposed  towards  the  task  of  making  herself 
better  accjuainted  with  her  had  she  known  that  she 
had  been  pitied  for  her  poor,  empty  life.  For  "poor, 
empty  life"  was  indeed  not  a  phrase  that  fitly  de- 
scribed the  passage  of  a  pilgrim  of  Mr.  Martin's 
gospel  through  this  pleasant  worlrl.  But  Mrs.  Han- 
cock had  nt)  idea  that  so  slanderous  a  thing  had 
been  said  of  her,  and  she  looked  forward  to  her 
sister-in-law's  visit  with  considerable  pleasure, 
which  was  enhanced  by  the  prospect  of  having 
Elizabeth  in  the  house  again.  She  intended  Eliza- 
beth to  be  in  the  best  of  spirits,  to  play  the  piano 
to  her  very  loudly  and  brightly  (Mrs.  Hancock 
knew  she  was  just  a  little  deaf  and  had  seen  four 
eminent  specialists  on  the  subject,  who  implored 
her,  so  she  said,  not  to  be  in  the  least  disquieted, 
but  to  eat  rather  less  meat,  as  her  very  slight  dull- 
ness of  hearing  was  certainly  gouty  in  origin),  to 
drive  with  her  on  Saturday  afternoon,  and  to  sit 
constantly  by  her  and  admire  her  masterly  methods 
with  the  "King  of  Mexico,"  which  had  rendered 
thrilling  so  many  after-dinner  hours  in  Egypt.  Then 
Mrs.  Fanshawe  should  drive  with  her  on  Saturday 
morning,  and  they  would  have  a  great  deal  of  beau- 


THE  GRISLY  KITTENS  321 

tiful  talk  about  the  Colonel.  In  her  mind's  eye  she 
saw  her  sister-in-law  crying  a  little,  and  herself  with 
touches  and  caresses  administering  the  gospel  of 
Mr.  Martin,  as  through  a  fine  hose,  in  the  most 
copious  and  refreshing  abundance.  When  she  was 
quite  refreshed  and  had  been  made  to  sec  that  death 
is  the  gate  into  life,  no  doubt  she  would  read  her 
part  of  the  Memoir  in  which  Mrs.  Hancock  took  a 
great  interest,  seeing  that  she  had  supplied  so  much 
material  for  the  chapter  (or  chapters,  it  was  to  be 
hoped)  on  his  early  life.  She  expected  to  enjoy 
the  account  of  the  early  life  very  much,  in  the  sort 
of  way  that  a  mellow  sunset  may  be  imagined  to 
enjoy  thinking  over  its  own  beautiful  sunrise.  And 
if  she  found  Mrs.  Fanshawe  very  sympathetic  and 
understanding,  she  thought,  she  almost  thought  that 
she  would  confirle  in  her  something  that  she  had 
never  yet  confided  in  anybody,  and  after  making 
clear  to  her  what  her  own  intentions  in  the  matter 
were,  ask  her  advice,  if  it  appeared  probable  that 
it  would  turn  out  consonant  with  what  she  herself 
had  practically  made  up  her  mind  to  do. 

These  last  six  months  had  been  crowded  with  in- 
cident; Mrs.  Hancock  did  not  think  any  year  in  all 
her  tale  of  forty-eight  summers  had  held  so  much, 
except  perhaps  the  one  year  when  she  had  married 
and  Edith  had  been  born.  For  now  Edith  had  mar- 
ried, Mrs.  Williams  had  had  an  operation  for  the 
removal  of  a  small  tumour,  her  brother  had  died, 
she  had  been  to  Egypt  and  had  brought  back  scores 
and  scores  of  photographs,  which  she  pasted  at  in- 
tervals into  large  half-morocco  scrap-books  procured 
at  staggering  expense  from  the  stores.  She  had  for- 
gotten what  precisely  a  good  many  of  them  repre- 
sented, but  Edith,  with  her  wonderful  memory, 
usually  knew,  and  if  she  did  not,  Mrs.  Hancock,  in 
her  exquisitely  neat  hand,  wrote  under  them  some 


322  ARUNDEI. 

non-committing  title  such  as  "Temple  in  I"^pper 
Egypt,"  or  "Nile  in  January"  (which  it  certainly 
was). 

All  this  was  sensational  enough,  and  Mrs.  Han- 
cock, had  she  read  about  a  year  so  full  of  incident 
in  a  novel,  would  liave  probably  felt  that  fiction  was 
stranger  than  truth,  when  she  was  asked  t<j  believe 
that  so  many  things  happened  really  "all  together." 
But  with  her  another  thing  had  happened  fraught 
with  more  potential  significance  than  them  all.  For 
the  death  of  her  brother,  of  whom  she  had  seen  so 
little  for  so  many  years,  had  not  really  strongly 
moved  her;  Mrs.  Williams  had  quite  rqcovered  and 
cooked  just  as  well  as  ever;  Edith  still  constantly 
drove  and  lunched  with  her,  and  agitating  though 
the  pasting  in  of  the  photographs  was  (she  had 
pasted  one  in  upside  down,  and  not  noticed  it  till 
the  next  day  when  the  paste  was  quite  dry  and 
"stuck"),  she  did  not  ever  look  at  them  again.  But 
one  event  seemed  likely  to  make  a  real  difference 
to  her  life,  for  while  they  were  at  Luxor,  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin had  been  suddenly  taken  ill  with  pneumonia 
and  had  died  three  days  later,  She  had  proved  her- 
self a  charming  travelling  companion,  and  Mrs. 
Hancock  had  been  very  much  shocked  and  grieved 
at  so  sail  an  incident  marring  their  holiday.  But 
she  did  not  break  down  under  the  bereavement;  she 
ordered  a  beautiful  tombstone,  though  not  expen- 
sive (since  she  knew  that  ]\Ir.  Martin  was  not  very 
well  off),  and  left  Luxor  as  soon  as  possible,  bring- 
ing back  with  her  a  large  photograph  of  the  grave. 
The  widower,  being  what  he  was,  behaved  with  the 
most  characteristic  fortitude  and  faith,  and  she  felt 
that  she  had  been  permitted  to  be  a  wonderful  help 
and  consolation  to  him  since  her  return.  Desolate 
though  he  was,  he  had  not  let  his  work  suffer.  In- 
deed, he  added  to  his  ordinary  duties  the  super- 


THE  GRISLY  KITTENS  323 

vision  of  the  choir-practices  which  his  wife  had  al- 
ways managed,  and  after  a  suitable  interval  played 
golf  as  regularly  as  ever.  And  only  last  Sunday  he 
had  preached  the  most  wonderful  sermon  that  Mrs. 
Hancock  had  ever  heard  on  the  text  of  "The  wilder- 
ness and  the  solitary  place  shall  be  glad  for  them." 
Tliankfulness  and  joy  was  the  keynote  of  it,  and 
everybody  understood  that  the  wilderness  was 
Egypt.  He  showed  how  that  in  the  midst  of  death 
we  are  in  life,  and  that  joy  cometh  in  the  morn- 
ing. He  had  lunched  with  I\Irs.  Hancock  after- 
wards, and  she  had  settled  that  it  must  be  printed 
with  a  purple  (not  black)  line  round  the  cover,  and 
with  "In  Memoriam,  January  4,  1913,"  printed  on 
the  inner  leaf.  He  did  not  go  away  till  it  was  time 
for  him  to  take  the  children's  service  at  four,  but 
before  that  he  had  asked  her  if,  when  his  broken 
heart  was  healed  (it  appeared  to  be  making  ex- 
cellent progress),  she  would  become  in  name  as  well 
as  in  fact  the  partner  of  his  joys  and  sorrows.  She 
rather  thought  she  would,  though  there  were  a  great 
many  things  to  be  considered  first,  and  she  prom- 
ised him  his  answer  in  a  week's  time.  Mrs.  Han- 
cock had  practically  settled  what  that  answer  was 
to  be,  and  at  present  she  had  told  nobody,  nor  asked 
anybody's  advice  about  it.  She  had,  indeed,  thought 
of  seeing  how  Edith  received  the  idea,  but  on  the 
other  hand  she  felt  that  she  would  not  give  her  the 
encouragement  she  wanted.  Edith,  indeed,  had 
been  altogether  rather  discouraging  for  months  past, 
ever  since  the  party  met  at  Cairo,  and  did  not  give 
the  lively  interest  in  and  applause  of  her  mother's 
plans  which  she  would  have  liked.  It  was  not  that 
she  seemed  unhappy  (if  she  had  Mrs.  Hancock  would 
have  applied  the  cheerful  gospel  to  her),  she  simply 
appeared  to  be  like  a  house  shut  up  wdth  blinds 
down  and  shutters  closed.    No  face  looked  out  from 


324  ARUNDEL 

it;  it  was  also  impossible  to  penetrate  into  it.  Per- 
haps, like  a  caretaker,  Edward  had  the  key,  but 
Mrs.  Hancock,  as  already  noticed,  did  not  like  to 
pry  into  afifairs  that  might  possibly  prove  depress- 
ing, and  she  had  not  asked  for  it.  Besides,  it  was 
difficult  to  imagine  any  cause  of  unhappiness  that 
could  be  hers.  Edward  always  came  home  by  the 
train  just  before  dinner;  she  expected  a  baby  in 
July;  and,  after  a  tremendous  struggle  with  her- 
self, Mrs.  Hancock  had  let  her  have  her  own  peer- 
less kitchenmaid  as  a  cook. 

But  she  felt  that  she  would  like  to  tell  somebody 
who  would  probably  agree  with  her  what  she  con- 
templated, anrl  she  had  great  hope  that  her  sister- 
in-law  would  prove  sympathetic.  It  had  been  a 
prepossessing  trait  to  find  her  buying  soap  in  High 
Holborn.  and  she  had  received  with  touching  grati- 
tude all  the  stories  about  Mrs.  Hancock  which  were 
to  go  into  her  husband's  Memoir. 

But  there  had  been  a  great  deal  to  think  about 
before  she  made  up  her  mind.  She  had  a  real 
liking,  a  real  admiration  for  her  vicar,  about  which 
there  was,  in  spite  of  her  eight  and  forty  years, 
something  akin  to  romance.  He  was  a  very  won- 
derful and  encouraging  person,  and  certainly  she  had 
needed  encouragement  in  the  lonely  month  after 
Edith's  marriage.  Again,  she  felt  sure  that  he  would 
be  devoted  to  her  comfort,  and  though  the  ecstasy  of 
youthful  love  might  be  denied  them,  she  did  not 
know  that  she  was  sorry  for  that.  She  was  perhaps 
some  five  years  older  than  he,  but  as  youthful  ardour 
was  not  part  of  her  programme,  that  little  discrep- 
ancy of  years  was  but  of  small  consequence.  But 
there  were  other  considerations;  she  could  not  possi- 
bly go  to  live  at  the  vicarage,  where  the  servants' 
entrance  was  close  under  the  dining-room  windows, 
and  there  was  no  garage.    She  could  not  also  be 


THE  GRISLY  KITTENS  325 

expected  to  help  in  parish  work  beyond  the  knitting 
of  thick  mufflers,  which  went  to  warm  deep-sea  fish- 
ermen. But  his  golf-playing  presented  no  difficul- 
ties at  all.  She  could  start  rather  earlier,  drive  him 
to  the  club-house,  and  pick  him  up  on  her  way 
home.  To  be  sure  that  would  somewhat  restrict  her 
drives,  if  she  always  had  to  start  and  come  back  by 
the  same  road.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  if  Den- 
ton took  him  there  first,  and  she  could  call  for  him. 
Then  what  was  to  happen  to  the  present  furniture  in 
the  vicarage,  for  she  did  not  want  any  more  in  her 
own  house?  She  did  not  intend  that  such  difficul- 
ties should  be  obstacles  of  magnitude,  but  her  mind, 
which  so  long  had  been  completely  taken  up  in 
affairs  of  detail,  the  whole  general  course  of  it  being 
already  marked  out,  could  not  resist  the  contempla- 
tion of  them.  Here  again  a  woman  who  went  all 
the  way  to  High  Holborn  for  soap  might  prove  both 
comprehending  and  enlightening. 

Mrs.  Fanshawe,  who,  with  Ehzabeth,  was  met  on 
the  platform  by  Denton  and  by  the  car  outside  the 
station,  was  an  immediate  success.  After  the  crude 
sort  of  harbourage  in  Oakley  Street,  with  its  small 
rooms  and  its  "dreadful  backyard,"  with  its  parlour- 
maid, who  had  a  perennial  cold  and  no  notion  of 
cleaning  silver,  this  perfectly  ordered  house,  with  its 
smooth  service  and  atmosphere  of  complete  comfort, 
was  as  cream  to  a  cat  that  had  been  living  on  the 
thinnest  skim-milk.  She  admired,  she  appreciated 
with  a  childlike  sort  of  pleasure ;  ate  two  buns  with 
sugar  on  the  top  at  tea,  because  they  were  so  de- 
licious ("Elizabeth,  darling,  you  must  eat  one  of 
these  lovely  buns!")  and  made  herself  instantly 
popular.  All  the  time,  in  the  depth  of  her  heart, 
she  hugged  the  knowledge  that  she  would  so  soon 
be  in  a  position  of  extreme  affluence,  and  a  ladyship, 
and  pitied  Mrs.  Hancock  for  her  poor,  empty  life. 


326  ARUNDEL 

Simultaneously,  Mrs.  Hancock  felt  what  a  treat  it 
must  be  for  her  sister-in-law  to  have  a  few  days  of 
comfort  and  luxury,  instead  of  going  all  the  way  to 
High  Holborn  to  get  soap  a  little  cheaper.  Having 
seen  hor  brother's  will  in  the  paper,  she  knew  ex- 
actly how  much  she  and  Elizaijcth  had  to  live  upon 
at  five  per  cent,  cf  the  capital,  and,  doubting 
whether  they  got  more  than  four,  was  warmed  with 
a  sense  of  her  own  benevolence  in  saving  them  three 
days  of  household  books  at  tiie  cost  of  a  third-class 
ticket  (she  felt  sure  they  had  gone  third-class)  to 
Heathmoor.  It  was  dreadfully  sad  for  the  poor 
thing  t-o  be  left  a  widow,  and  it  was  not  to  be  ex- 
pected that  she  would  find  a  second  husband  very 
easily.  But  her  cordial  admiration  of  all  she  saw 
was  certainly  prepossessing;  Mrs.  Hancock  felt  that 
she  would  pr()l)ably  prove  a  worthy  recipient  of  her 
secret,  and  give  exactly  the  advice  she  wanted. 
More  metaphysically  each  of  them  felt  drawn  to  the 
other  by  the  striking  similarity  between  them  in  the 
point  of  their  lack  of  sincerity,  and  the  success  they 
both  achieved  in  deceiving  themselves. 

The  three  dined  alone  that  night,  and  soon  after 
her  stepmother  having  discovered  that  her  sweetest 
Elizabeth  looked  tired,  the  two  elder  ladies  were 
left  alone. 

"And  now.  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Hancock  (they 
had  got  to  mj'-dearing  each  other  before  dinner  was 
half  over).  "I  so  want  to  have  a  good  talk  to  you.  I 
want  to  know  all  your  plans,  and  all  about  the  Me- 
moir, which  I  am  sure  will  be  most  interesting.  Shall 
I  lay  out  a  patience,  while  we  talk?  I  can  attend  per- 
fectly while  I  am  playing  one  of  the  easier  patiences. 
Elizabeth,  too.  it  is  such  a  joy  to  see  Elizabeth 
again,  after  the  sad,  sad  parting  in  the  summer." 

Mrs.  Fanshawe  put  her  head  a  little  on  one  side 
wistfully. 


THE  GRISLY  KITTENS  327 

"Elizabeth  can  hardly  talk  of  the  happy  weeks  she 
spent  here/'  she  said,  "and  I'm  sure  I  don't  wonder 
at  her  enjoyment  of  them.  My  dear,  how  happy  it 
must  make  you  to  make  everybody  around  you  so 
happy.    I  don't  believe  you  ever  think  of  yourself." 

Mrs.  Hancock  smiled;  a  long-wanted  red  queen 
had  appeared. 

"It  does  make  one  happy  not  to  think  of  one- 
self," she  said,  "and  how  the  time  goes  when  you 
are  thinking  of  other  people.  I  am  often  astounded 
when  Sunday  comes  round  again,  for  the  weeks  go 
by  in  a  flash.  I  take  my  dear  Edith  out  for  her 
drives — it  is  so  good  to  her  to  have  plenty  of  fresh 
air — and  she  comes  to  lunch  with  me  every  day 
almost,  so  that  she  shall  not  be  alone  in  her  house, 
with  her  husband  away  all  day,  and  it  is  Sunday 
again,  and  I  get  what  I  call  my  weekly  refresher 
from  our  dear  Mr.  Martin.  Such  a  beautiful  ser- 
mon he  gave  us  last  Sunday — ah,  there  is  the  ten 
I  wanted — on  the  subject  of  his  sad  bereavement. 
His  wife,  you  know.  I  took  her  out  to  Egypt  with 
me;  it  was  most  important  that  she  should  get  out 
of  the  winter  fogs  and  damp  of  England,  and  she 
died  at  Luxor  after  three  days'  illness.  How  glad 
I  was  she  had  a  friend  with  her — my  dear,  forgive 
me,  how  thoughtless  I  am." 

"No,  not  thoughtless,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Fan- 
shawe.  "Not  thoughtless.  And  Mr.  Martin.  Tell 
me  about  Mr.  Martin.  I  feel  sure  I  should  like  Mr. 
Martin." 

Mrs.  Hancock  bundled  her  patience  cards  to- 
gether. She  had  not  left  a  patience  unfinished,  ex- 
cept when  the  patience  had  finished  her,  for  years. 
Perfectly  as  she  could  attend  when  she  was  playing 
it,  she  prepared  now  to  be  absolutely  undistracted. 

"Indeed,  no  one  could  help  liking  Mr.  Martin," 
she  said.     "He  has  the  noblest  of  characters,  and 


328  ARUNDEL 

with  it  all  not  a  touch  of  priggishness.  To  see  him 
play  golf,  or  to  hear  him  laugh,  talk,  you  would 
never  think  he  was  a  clergyman,  but  to  hear  him 
preach  you  would  think  he  was  a  bishop  at  least.  I 
know  of  nobody  whom  I  admire  more.  Listen. 
Was  not  that  the  front-door  bell?  How  tiresome  if 
we  are  interrupted  in  our  talk.  Yes;  I  hear  Lind 
going  to  open  it.  Now  he  has  shut  it  again.  Ah, 
it  is  only  a  note.  Will  you  excuse  me?  Yes,  from 
Edward.  Just  to  say  he  and  Edith  will  come  to 
lunch  to-morrow,  as  he  is  not  going  up  to  the  City. 
No  answer,  Lind." 

Now  Mrs.  Fanshawe  harl  not  failed  to  mark  the 
expression  of  her  sistor-in-law's  face  when  she  spoke 
of  Mr.  ALartin.  If  she  had  worn  it  herself  she  would 
have  called  it  a  "rapt  expression,"  but  it  was  not  so 
admirable  on  the  features  of  a  woman  who,  to  adopt 
Mrs.  Fanshawe's  point  of  view,  was  already  aground, 
so  to  speak,  on  the  shallows  of  advanced  middle-age, 
where  there  is  not  sufficient  youth  to  carry  you  over 
those  emotional  banks.  Still,  on  a  younger  and 
perhaps  a  more  spiritual  face,  it  would  have  been 
rapt,  and  it  occurred  to  her  that  in  mind  perhaps 
her  sister-in-law  was  not  as  old  as  she  looked  or  as 
she  was.  It  would  be  very  ridiculous  if  at  that  age 
a  woman  was  the  prey  of  sentimental  notions — but 
then  she  had  a  very  comfortable  house,  a  delight- 
ful retreat  from  the  stuffy  little  kennel  in  Oakley 
Street. 

Mrs.  Hancock  waited  till  Lind  had  quite  shut  the 
drawing-room  door,  and  then  turned  to  her  sister- 
in-law  again. 

"My  dear,  I  want  your  advice,"  she  said,  "for  you 
are  a  woman  of  the  world  and  I  am  sure  are  wise. 
You  see  this  spring,  after  poor  Mrs.  Martin's  death, 
I  saw  a  great  deal  of  the  vicar,  and  I  think  I  was 
able  to  comfort  and  uphold  him,  so  that  he  leans 


THE  GRISLY  KITTENS  329 

a  good  deal  on  me  now,  though  of  course  we  have 
been  very  great  friends  for  years.  Could  you  give 
that  footstool  just  a  little  kick  this  way?  He  feels 
his  loneliness  very  much ;  he  wants  some  one  whom 
he  knows  and  trusts  and,  shall  I  say,  admires?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Fanshawe.  "Admires,  I  am 
sure." 

"How  kind  of  you!  Well,  admires,  to  take  the 
place  of  her  whom  he  has  lost,  and  who  was  a  very 
good,  sweet  sort  of  woman  indeed." 

Mrs.  Hancock  leaned  forward. 

"He  has  told  all  this  to  me,"  she  said,  putting  her 
hand  on  Mrs.  Fanshawe's  arm.  "Now  you  know 
what  I  think  of  him.  Do  advise  me — what  am  I  to 
say  to  him?  Edith  and  Edward,  you  see,  are  both 
so  young.  It  would  be  a  wonderful  thing  for  them 
to  have  a  father  to  go  to  in  those  difficulties  in 
which  a  man  is  so  much  more  competent  to  advise 
them  than  a  woman.  Lind  and  Denton,  too,  there 
is  a  great  deal  that  a  master  of  a  house  can  do  to 
influence  men-servants.    What  shall  I  say  to  him?" 

Probably  no  more  wholly  original  reason  for 
matrimony  had  ever  been  put  forward  than  that  it 
would  provide  a  man  to  look  after  the  butler,  but 
one  of  the  stories  about  the  Colonel's  early  life  had 
shown  that  he  had  the  highest  opinion  of  his  sister's 
originality.  To-day  if  never  before  that  opinion  was 
justified.  Mrs.  Fanshawe  did  not  remember  the 
story,  nor  did  the  delirious  originality  strike  her 
now.  But  she  saw  quite  clearly  what  Mrs.  Hancock, 
the  owner  of  this  comfortable  house,  wanted  her  to 
say.  She  got  up  from  her  chair  and  knelt  on  the 
footstool  which  she  had  kicked  a  little. 

"My  dear,  I  envy  you  your  beautiful,  unselfish 
nature,"  she  said.  "Ajid  let  me  be  the  first  to  con- 
gratulate Mr.  Martin." 

"You  shall  be,"  said  Mrs.  Hancock,  kissing  her. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

heart's  desire 

Mrs.  Haxcock  had  made  so  tnuchinp;  a  talc  of  the 
help  she  had  been  to  Mr.  Martin,  and  of  Mr.  Mar- 
tin's devotion  to  her,  and  how  the  chief  reason  for 
her  contemplated  marriage  was  that  he  might  exer- 
cise a  wise  and  fatherly  care  over  EdwaFd  and  Edith 
and  Denton  and  Lind,  that  Mrs.  Fanshawe  lay 
awake  for  quite  a  considerable  time  that  night  in 
spite  of  the  extreme  comfort  of  her  bed,  vividly 
exercising  her  imagination  to  see  how  she  might 
paint  with  an  even  nobler  brush  the  loves  of  Henry 
and  Birdie.  She  flattered  herself  that  she  had  far 
more  promising  material  to  work  with,  for  what  in 
point  of  romance  was  a  middle-aged  country  vicar 
to  compare  with  the  Commander-in-Chief  in  India, 
or  what  was  the  elderly  Mrs.  Hancock  in  compari- 
son with  her  young  and  graceful  sister-in-law?  She 
was  slightly  chagrined  that  Mrs.  Hancock  had  al- 
ready "bagged"  as  a  motive  for  matrimony  the  care 
of  a  fatherless  daughter,  but  she  had  rendered  it 
ridiculous  when  it  was  thought  over  by  the  addi- 
tion of  a  butler  and  a  chauffeur.  Besides,  Edith  was 
already  married,  and  no  longer  in  the  touching  deso- 
lation of  a  newly  orphaned  girl  just  growing  up. 
However,  she  found  she  had  many  very  beautiful 
things  to  say,  and  only  hoped  that  Mrs.  Hancock 
would  prove  as  zealous  and  absorbed  a  listener  as 
she  herself  had  been.  She  had  an  opportunity  of 
testing  this  when  they  started  on  their  drive  next 

830 


HEART'S  DESIRE  331 

morning.  Mrs.  Fanshawe  was  not  quite  ready  when 
the  motor  came  round,  but  after  a  prolonged  debate 
it  was  decided  to  go  round  by  the  Old  Mill  just  the 
same,  and  put  off  lunch  for  five  minutes.  Her  un- 
punctuality,  however,  was  quite  forgiven  her  when 
she  explained  that  she  and  Elizabeth  had  been  "so 
wrapped  up"  in  the  tulips  that  she  had  no  idea  how 
late  it  was. 

Mrs.  Fanshawe  began  preparing  for  her  exquisite 
revelation  without  loss  of  time. 

"You've  no  idea  how  thrilled  I  was,  dear,  by  what 
you  told  me  last  night,"  she  said.  "I  lay  awake  so 
long  thinking  about  it.  And  it  is  such  a  treat,  oh 
such  a  treat  to  be  confided  in.  I  feel  we  are  quite 
old  friends  already." 

Mrs.  Hancock  beamed  approval. 

"We  had  a  nice  talk,"  she  said,  "and  I  should  not 
wonder  if  we  saw  Mr.  Martin  playing  golf.  In  any 
case  you  will  see  him — oh,  what  a  jolt!  That  must 
have  been  something  big  on  the  road.  Do  you  think 
we  might  have  your  window  a  little  more  down, 
dear?  I  want  you  to  profit  by  this  lovely  air.  Yes, 
just  like  that.  I  wonder  how  I  shall  teU  Mrs. 
Williams  and  Edith  and  them  all  about  it.  I  shall 
feel  so  nervous.  Perhaps  I  had  better  leave  it  to 
Mr.  Martin.  WHiat  do  you  think?  Yes,  if  you  look 
out  of  this  window  you  will  see  him  there.  That  is 
he  hitting  away  with  his  golf-stick  at  that  furze- 
bush.  How  vigorous,  is  he  not?  Oh,  did  you  see 
his  ball  fly  away  then?  He  plays  so  beautifully! 
Indeed,  dear,  I  feel  such  old  friends  with  you,  too, 
and  to  think  that — there,  he  is  talking  to  his  part- 
ner.   Now  they  are  quite  out  of  sight." 

Mrs.  Fanshawe  could  not  at  once  decline  from 
the  high  standard  of  sympathy  and  comprehension 
she  had  set  last  night. 

"And  I  only  just  caught  a  glimpse  of  him!"  she 


332  ARUNDEL, 

said.  "I  shall  have  to  curb  my  impatience  till  I 
meet  him  at  your  house.  But  I  warn  you,  my  dear, 
I  shall  be  very  critical  of  the  man  who  is  going  to 
take  care  of  you.  He  will  have  to  think  about  you 
much  more  than  you  ever  think  about  yourself." 

Mrs.  Hancock  shook  her  head. 

"No,  quite  the  other  way  round,  dear,"  she  said. 
"I  shall  have  U)  take  care  of  him.  He  wears  himself 
out  with  work.  I  have  no  doubt  that  after  his  game 
to-day — he  plays  golf  really  entirely  for  the  sake  of 
the  influence  it  gives  him  over  the  young  men  here, 
and  he  introduces  a  spirit  of  earnestness  among  the 
caddies — are  they  not  called,  who  carry  the  sticks? — 
after  his  game,  I  dare  say  he  will  go  straight  to  his 
study  and  finish  up  his  sermon.  There  is  the  Great 
Western  Railway.  Look!  What  a  long  luggage- 
train!  I  wonder  what  it  contains.  Perhaps  the 
new  lawn-tennis  net  which  I  ordered  from  the  stores 
yesterday.  I  know  that  when  I  have  charge  of  Mr. 
Martin  I  shall  not  let  him  wear  himself  out  so.  He 
ought  to  have  a  curate,  for  instance.  I  wonder  how 
much  a  good  curate  costs." 

Mrs.  Fanshawe  had  no  data  on  which  to  base  this 
calculation,  and  Mrs.  Hancock  allowed  the  conver- 
sation to  veer  a  little  in  her  direction. 

"You  are  getting  quite  a  colour  in  your  cheeks, 
dear,  already,"  she  said,  "with  our  good  air.  You 
must  come  here  often  and  have  plenty  of  it.  I  can't 
tell  you  how  often  I  have  meant  to  ask  you  here 
with  dear  Elizabeth,  but  I  was  determined  to  get 
everything  straight  first  after  my  long  absence  so 
that  you  would  be  quite  comfortable.  And  how 
often  my  heart  has  bled  for  you  in  your  loneliness! 
I  remember  so  well  after  my  dear  husband  died  I 
thought  I  should  never  enjoy  anything  any  more. 
Even  now  sometimes  I  should  feel  dreadfully  de- 
pressed if  I  allowed  myself  to.    But  I  have  always 


HEART'S  DESIRE  333 

told  myself  what  great  causes  I  have  for  thankful- 
ness.   Mr.  Martin " 

Mrs.  Fanshawe  broke  in,  feeling  that  there  was  a 
limit  at  which  sympathy  passes  into  drivel  and  com- 
prehension into  idiotic  acquiescence.  Besides,  it  was 
only  fair  that  she  should  have  some  sort  of  an  in- 
nings. 

"I  feel  so  much  all  that  you  say,  dear,"  she  said, 
"especially  about  causes  for  thankfulness.  I  am 
sure  they  are  showered  on  me.  And  Bob  was  al- 
ways so  anxious  and  thoughtful  for  my  happiness 
that  I  should  feel  that  I  should  be  failing  in  my 
duty  to  him  if  I  lost  any  opportunity  of  securing  it." 

This  sentence  did  not  seem  to  come  out  exactly 
as  she  had  meant;  it  sounded  as  if  the  imputation 
of  selfishness  might  possibly  be  applied  to  it,  which 
she  did  not  at  all  wish  to  incur.  She  continued 
hastily — 

"And  happiness  only  lies,  as  you,  dear,  show  so 
well,  in  the  making  of  others  happy.  I  wish  I  had 
more  people  to  take  care  of  and  think  about.  At 
present  there  has  been  only  Elizabeth  who  has 
needed  me.  I  think  I  may  say  I  have  given  myself 
to  Elizabeth,  for  I  am  sure  I  have  thought  of  little 
else  but  her  and  the  Memoir  since  August  last.  I 
have  brought  down  the  Memoir,  as  far  as  I  have  got. 
You  will  like  to  see  it.  I  might  leave  it  with  you 
when  I  go  away  on  Monday  after  my  happy  visit." 

Mrs.  Hancock  rapidly  considered  whether  she 
wanted  her  new  friend  to  stop  till  Tuesday.  She 
felt  she  could  not  make  up  her  mind  on  the  spur 
of  the  moment. 

"That  will  be  a  great  treat!"  she  said.  "Or  per- 
haps you  would  read  some  of  it  aloud  to  me.  I  am 
sure  you  have  written  it  beautifully,  and  I  so  much 
like  being  read  aloud  to.  The  chapter  on  his  early 
life  will  bring  back  old  times.    Look,  there  are  the 


334  ARUNDEL 

towers  of  Windsor  Castle.  We  can  only  see  them 
on  a  very  clear  day.  .Mr.  Martin  has  wonderfully 
long  sight." 

Mrs.  Fanshawe  wrenched  the  cc  aversation  back 
again.  She  was  going  to  set  up  another  standard 
for  their  joint  admiration. 

"But  I  want  more  to  look  after,  more  to  take  care 
of,"  she  said.  "And  would  you  thmk  it  very  weak 
of  me  if  I  saifl  I  wanted  also  to  be  a  little  taken 
care  of  myself?  I  am  so  inexperienced,  and  I  am 
afraid  Bob  spoiled  me  and  made  me  used  to  being 
so  lovingly  looked  after.  And  there  is  somebody, 
dear,  who  wants,  oh  so  much,  to  be  allowed  to  look 
after  me." 

Mrs.  Hancock  was  just  about  to  remark  that  the 
towers  of  Windsor  Castle  were  no  longer  visible,  but 
this  completely  arrested  her.  She  had  a  momentary 
sense  that  Mrs.  Fanshawe  had  taken  a  mean  ad- 
vantage of  her  in  allowing  anything  to  interfere  with 
the  unique  interest  of  her  own  situation.  It  came 
into  her  mind  also  that  any  one  who  had  married 
her  brother  ought  not  to  think  of  re-marriage  for 
years  and  years,  if  ever.  But  both  these  impres- 
sions were  overscored  by  curiosity.  She  gave  a  little 
excited  scream, 

"My  dear,  how  you  surprise  me!"  she  said.  "Yes, 
pray  tell  me  more.    Who  is  it?" 

Mrs.  Fanshawe  pulled  out  this  ace  of  trumps. 

"Sir  Henrj'  Meyrick,"  she  said.  "Commander-in- 
Chief,  you  know,  in  India,  Such  devotion!  I  am 
sure  that  if  I  had  the  hardest  heart  in  the  world, 
instead  of  a  very  soft  one,  I  should  not  be  able  to 
let  such  devotion  go  unrewarded.  And  Elizabeth — 
think  how  he  will  look  after  EUzabeth!  He  is  so 
devoted  to  her,  I  declare  I  should  be  quite  jealous 
if  I  did  not  know  that  it  was  just  a  fatherly  affec- 
tion." 


HEART'S  DESIRE  335 

This  allusion  to  the  daughter-motif  seemed  to 
Mrs.  Hancock  rank  plagiarism,  and  spoiled  in  the 
stealing.  Elizabeth  was  not  Mrs.  Fanshawe's  daugh- 
ter; she  had  no  right  at  all  to  use  that  as  a  reason. 
She  made  up  her  mind  (if  that  dim  mirror  which 
reflected  fleeting  emotions  can  be  called  a  mind) 
that  Mrs.  Fanshawe  should  go  away  on  Monday. 
Then  immediately  the  mirror  reflected  another 
image — it  would  be  rather  interesting  to  speak  about 
"my  sister-in-law,  Lady  Meyrick."  To  be  sure  it 
was  a  very  short  time  since  Colonel  Fanshawe's 
death  .  .  .  but  then  it  was  a  much  shorter  time 
since  Mrs.  Martin's. 

Rapidly  these  evanescent  images  chased  each 
other  over  the  field.  And  before  the  pause  grew 
uncordial  she  fixed  on  one  of  them,  namely,  "my 
sister-in-law,  Lady  Meyrick." 

"My  dear,  I  am  quite  overcome  with  your  news," 
she  said.  "It  is  most  interesting,  and  I  am  sure  I 
wish  you  happiness  with  all  my  heart.  I  have  often 
seen  Sir  Henry's  name  in  the  newspapers  and  won- 
dered what  he  was  like.  And  now  to  think  that  he 
is  to  become  so  near  a  relation ! " 

By  an  effort  of  great  magnanimity  she  decided 
to  pass  over  the  plagiarism  altogether. 

"And  what  good  fortune  for  Elizabeth,"  she  said, 
"whose  welfare  was  always  such  a  source  of  thought 
and  contriving  to  me.  And  what  does  she  think 
of  it  all?  Why,  we  are  at  the  Old  Mill  already! 
If  you  could  just  reach  that  speaking-tube,  dear, 
and  call  to  Denton  to  stop,  so  that  we  may  enjoy 
looking  at  it.  Mr.  Martin  always  calls  it  the  most 
picturesque  corner  in  Middlesex.  How  swiftly  the 
water  runs,  does  it  not?  Of  course,  you  will  not 
think  of  being  married  for  a  long  time  to  come.  Is 
it  not  a  coincidence  that  our  dear  Bob  should  have 
married  twice,  and  now  you  are  going  to  do  the 


336  ARUNDEL 

same,  and  Mr.  Martin,  too,  and  me?  I  declare  I 
never  heard  of  such  coincidences!  You  must  be 
sure  and  tell  Sir  Henry  to  come  down  to  see  me. 
Mr.  Martin  and  he  must  make  friends.  And  who 
knows  that  I  shall  not  flap  my  wings  a  little  further 
yet  and  come  out  to  see  you  in  India?  Where  does 
the  Commander-in-Chief  live?  Look,  there  is  the 
miller  fishing;!  I  wonder  if  he  has  caught  anything. 
I  am  afraid  wc  must  turn,  or  we  shall  be  late  for 
lunch,  which  would  never  do,  as  we  have  postponed 
it  in  order  to  be  in  time.  And  I  hope  you  won't 
dream  of  going  away  on  Monday.  You  must  stop 
till  Tuesday  at  the  very  least." 

Mrs.  Fanshawe  was  not  perfectly  satisfied,  though 
she  felt  she  was  being  envied.  She  determined  not 
to  be  so  easy  of  access. 

**You  must  get  Henry's  leave  for  that,"  she  said, 
"for  I  promised  him  I  would  be  back  on  Monday. 
I  don't  know  what  he  would  do  if  I  broke  my  prom- 
ise to  hhn.  And  such  a  business  as  I  had  to  allow 
him  to  let  me  go  away  at  all." 

For  the  first  time  for  many  years  Mrs.  Hancock 
found  herself  in  the  position  of  one  who  asked  in- 
stead of  gran  toil  favours. 

"Ah !  I  wonder  if  you  could  induce  him  to  come 
down  here  on  Monday  to  take  you  back  the  next 
day  or  the  day  after?"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Fanshawe  greedily  pursued  her  advantage 
and  assumed  an  air  of  odious  superiority. 

"But,  dear,  we  should  be  taxing  the  capabilities 
of  your  charming  little  house  too  much,"  she  said, 
feeling  certain  of  her  ground.  "I  should  not  wonder 
if  Henry  was  unable  to  go  anywhere  without  his 
secretary,  as  well  as  a  servant.  He  must  have  to 
keep  in  constant  touch  with  the  India  Office.  But 
it  is  dehghtful  of  you  to  suggest  it,  only  we  must 
not  trespass  on  your  good-nature." 


HEART'S  DESIRE  337 

"No  difficulty  at  all!"  cried  Mrs.  Hancock. 
"There  is  the  pink  room  and  the  best  blue  bedroom 
and  the  lilac  dressing-room  next  mine,  into  which 
Elizabeth  can  go.  The  thing  is  done,  dear,  if  you 
will  only  say  the  word.  And  if  Sir  Henry  plays  golf, 
there  will  be  Mr.  Martin  delighted  to  lend  him  some 
golf-sticks  and  go  round  with  him,  do  they  not  call 
it?  It  will  be  a  pleasure  to  him;  he  has  always  had 
such  an  admiration  for  soldiers,  for,  to  be  sure,  as 
he  says  sometimes,  he  is  a  soldier  himself,  jfighting 
battles  continually.  I  will  get  up  a  little  dinner- 
party for  Monday  night,  and  Edward  and  Elizabeth 
shall  play  afterguards,  if  Sir  Henry  likes  music." 

While  this  kittenish  comedy  was  going  on  some- 
thing younger  and  more  tragical  was  in  progress  in 
the  two  adjacent  houses.  Edward  had  been  sitting 
in  his  smoking-room  after  breakfast,  with  eyes  that 
wandered  over  his  uncomprehended  newspaper,  con- 
scious of  an  overmastering  desire  to  slip  across  to  the 
house  next  door  merely  to  see  Elizabeth,  to  satisfy 
the  eyes  that  ached  for  her  and,  as  he  knew  well, 
but  to  render  the  more  acute  the  aching  of  his  heart. 
His  wife,  as  was  often  her  custom,  had  come  in  after 
she  had  attended  to  her  household  duties,  and  sat 
in  her  usual  seat  by  the  window,  speaking  occa- 
sionally to  him,  or  replying  in  perfectly  common- 
place fashion,  to  his  dropped  observations.  They 
had  spoken  of  their  plans  for  the  day,  of  the  arrival 
of  Mrs.  Fanshawe  and  Elizabeth,  and  now  and  then, 
focusing  his  eyes  but  not  his  mind,  he  had  men- 
tioned some  newspaper  topic.  Such  half-hours  they 
had  spent  a  hundred  times  before,  but  to-day  each 
was  intensely  conscious  of  something  that,  always 
lying  behind  their  intercourse  and  never  spoken  of 
between  them,  had  suddenly  enveloped  and  en- 
shadowed,  like  the  gathering  of  a  tropical  storm,  the 
foreground  of  their  life  as  well.   He  tried  to  imagine 


338  ARUNDEL 

himself  putting  down  his  newspaper  in  a  leisurely 
way,  and  forming  his  voice  to  say,  lightly  and  casu- 
ally, that  he  would  stroll  across  to  "Sirs.  Hancock's. 
But  he  felt  that,  as  if  intoxicated,  his  tongue  would 
stammer  and  stumble  on  the  words.  Once  he  laid 
his  paper  down,  and  saw  that  on  the  instant  she 
had  started  into  attentive  expectation,  had  fixed  her 
eyes  on  him  ready  for  what  she  knew  would  come 
from  his  lips,  for  she  read,  so  he  felt,  his  unspoken 
sentence,  knowing  what  filled  his  mind.  But  still 
he  sat  there,  unable  to  tell  her  what  he  ached  to  do, 
while  she  waited.  In  all  the  months  of  their  mar- 
riage Elizabeth's  name  had  been  mentioned  only 
as  the  name  of  some  indifi"erent  cousmi  might  have 
been;  never  as  one  who  held  Edward's  heart  in 
the  hollow  of  her  hands. 

For  herself,  even  as  bees  build  up  in  walls  of 
impenetrable  gluelike  wax  some  intruder  and  enemy 
to  their  hive.  Edith  had  walled  away  from  her  life 
all  thought  of  her  cousin.  She  had  built  her  up  into 
a  separate  chamber  of  her  brain,  so  that  her  worker- 
bees,  the  conscious  denizens  of  her  mind,  should 
have  no  access  to  her.  Her  love  for  Edward  (that 
nipped  and  unexpanded  bud,  which  had  never 
blown),  which  had  claimed  possession  of  him,  in- 
stead of  giving  hmi  his  liberty  and  seeking  his  hap- 
piness at  the  cost  of  the  last  drop  of  her  heart's 
blood,  had  starved  on  its  comfortless  food,  and  the 
leanness  of  her  desire  had  entered  into  her  soul. 
For  seven  months  she  had  been  his  wife,  sharer  in 
name  in  all  that  nominally  was  his,  recipient  of  his 
unwearied  kindness  and  affection,  but  never  for  a 
single  moment  possessing  his  essential  self.  She 
had  no  word  or  thought  of  complaint  of  him  in  his 
conduct  or  in  his  feelings  towards  her;  he  gave  all 
that  was  his  to  give.  She  had  demanded  of  him  the 
fulfilment  of  his  bargain,  and  to  the  full  extent  of  his 


HEART'S  DESIRE  339 

solvency,  so  to  speak,  he  had  paid  it.  But  now  she 
knew  that  he  was  absolutely  insolvent  towards  her 
with  regard  to  the  coinage  of  the  only  true  mint. 
She  had  thought  that  her  love  with  its  hopeless 
limitations  could  make  his  reef  of  gold  hers.  She 
had  thought  that  they  could  settle  down  into  a 
sham  that  would  cheat  both  himself  and  her,  that 
the  mask  of  his  face  would  either  be  withdrawn  or 
would  deceive  her  into  the  belief  of  its  reality. 
Neither  had  happened ;  he  must  always  wear  a  mask 
for  her,  and  that  mask  would  never  grow  so  like 
the  human  face  below  it  (so  little  way  below,  and 
yet  withdrawn  into  impenetrable  depths)  that  it 
would  deceive  her  into  believing  in  it.  And  now, 
before  long,  she  would  bear  a  child  to  him,  and  it 
seemed  to  her,  in  the  enlightenment  that  these 
smooth,  prosperous  months  of  misery  had  brought 
her,  that  her  baby  would  be  no  better  than  a  bas- 
tard. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  this  misery  was 
acute  or  the  degree  of  enlightenment  it  brought  clear 
and  cloudless.  Her  perceptions  were  not  of  the  kind 
that  admit  great  poignancy  either  of  wretchedness 
or  of  bliss.  Once  only  perhaps  in  all  her  life  had  the 
engines  of  her  being  worked  up  to  their  full  power, 
and  that  was  when  she  claimed  the  fulfilment  of 
Edward's  promise.  She  had  felt  intensely  and 
acutely  then  the  impossibility  of  giving  him  up,  but 
since  that  flash  of  deplorable  intensity  she  had  fallen 
back  on  to  her  normal  levels,  where  the  ground,  so 
to  speak,  was  solid  and  rather  clayey,  where  there 
were  neither  peaks  nor  precipices.  But  it  declined 
slowly  and  unintermittently  into  a  place  of  feature- 
less gloom.  Yet,  except  to  any  one  who  was  gifted 
with  the  divine  intuition  of  love  towards  her,  there 
were  no  signs  in  her  normal  behaviour  of  this  in- 
ward wretchedness,  and  for  poor  Edith  there  was 


340  ARUNDEL 

nobody  thus  inspired.  She  had  always  been  rather 
reserved  and  silent,  and  even  Mr.  Martin,  that 
brilliant  seeker  after  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  others, 
had  neither  missed  in  her  the  steady  placidity  that 
he  knew  nor  had  detected  any  other  change.  As  for 
her  mother,  Edith's  invariable  punctuality,  her  quiet 
recognition  of  objects  of  interest  like  the  towers  of 
Windsor  Castle  and  the  trains  on  the  Great  Western 
Railway,  were  sufficient  evidence  of  contentment, 
especially  since  Edward  always  got  home  by  the  din- 
ner train  and  she  was  going  to  have  a  baby.  Here 
were  adequate  causes  for  thankfulness,  and  she  was 
sure  that  Edith,  who  had  so  strong  a  sense  of  duty, 
appreciated  them. 

Edith's  enlightenment  was  of  the  same  order,  no 
noonday  blaze,  but  only  a  diffused  luminance  that 
came  veiled  through  those  clouds,  not  dispersing 
them.  But  she  no  longer  groped  in  darkness  as  she 
had  done  when  she  decided  that  she  could  not  volun- 
tarily give  Edward  his  liberty.  She  could  see  more 
now.  Not  only  could  she  see  the  utter  unreality  at 
which  she  had  grasped,  but  that  there  was  in  exist- 
ence a  real  light  different  altogether  from  the  phan- 
tasmal will-o'-the-wisp  which  she  had  blindly  fol- 
lowed into  the  quagmire.  She  had  sought  her  own, 
thinking  that  it  was  love  she  followed.  She  would 
have  sought  her  own  no  longer,  if  it  bad  been  possi- 
ble for  her  to  make  choice  again. 

Vaguely,  as  she  sat  this  morning  by  the  window, 
these  things  passed  before  her  mind,  as  the  pictures 
of  some  well-known  and  familiar  book  pass  before 
the  eye  of  one  who  listlessly  turns  the  leaves.  At 
the  end  of  the  book,  she  knew,  there  were  pictures 
she  had  not  seen  yet.  It  was  as  if  Edward's  finger 
as  well  as  hers  was  on  the  page,  doubting  whether 
to  turn  on  or  not.  Nearly  an  hour  wore  away  thus, 
outwardly  like  many  other  hours,  but  in  reality  an 


HEART'S  DESIRE  341 

hour  of  poise  and  expectancy.  Then  on  the  road 
outside  the  gate  she  saw  pass,  as  she  had  so  often 
seen,  her  mother's  motor.  Mrs.  Fanshawe  was  with 
her,  and  next  door  Ehzabeth  was  alone. 

''Mother  going  out  for  her  drive,"  she  said  me- 
chanically. 

She  did  not  look  round,  but  heard  the  paper  flut- 
ter in  Edward's  fingers. 

"Alone?"  he  asked.    "Or  with  whom?" 

"With  Mrs.  Fanshawe,"  said  she.  And  again  the 
silence  fell. 

Suddenly  a  desire  and  a  doubt  came  to  her.  She 
did  not  know  how  they  came,  for  the  impulse  that 
prompted  them  seemed  to  have  taken  no  part  in  her 
thoughts.  Apparently  something  behind  that  wall 
of  gluelike  wax  had  stirred — stirred  imperatively, 
giving  her  quickness  and  decision.    She  rose. 

"I  shall  go  across  and  see  Elizabeth,"  she  said.  "I 
know  you  have  been  wanting  to  do  that  all  morn- 
ing, Edward.  But  you  couldn't  say  it.  I  under- 
stood." 

He  got  up  also. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  said.  "What  are  you 
saying?" 

"Something  perfectly  simple.  Of  course  you  want 
to  see  Elizabeth,  and  of  course  you  find  a  difficulty 
in  telling  me  so.  Do  you  know  that  we  haven't 
mentioned  Elizabeth's  name,  except  as  a  stranger 
might  mention  it,  ever  since  our  marriage,  ever  since 
the  night,  in  fact,  that — that  I  settled  to  marry 
you." 

"No;  and  that  was  natural,  wasn't  it?" 

Certainly  something  stirred  behind  the  sealed-up 
partition.  The  bees  themselves,  the  thoughts  and 
workers  in  Edith's  mind,  were  tearing  the  partition 
away. 

"I  suppose  it  was,"  she  said.    "But  I  want  to  see 


342  ARUNDEL 

Elizabeth  now.  That  is  natural,  too,  because  I  was 
always  fond  of  Elizabeth,  and  I  don't  blame  her  be- 
cause you  loved  her.  You  see,  she  never  loved  you ; 
she  told  me  that  herself." 

He  came  close  to  her. 

"Why  do  you  speak  of  Elizabeth  now,"  he  said, 
"after  all  these  months  of  silence?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  don't  know.  Why  does  one  do  anything?  It 
occurred  to  me,  I  suppose,  to  speak  of  Elizabeth 
because  she  is  here,  and  because  I  was  going  across 
to  see  her.    She  never  loved  you,  Edward." 

"No.    You  told  me  that." 

He  spoke  quietly  and  reassuringly,  but  it  occurred 
to  him  tliat  for  some  reason  Edith  was  beginning  to 
doubt  that,  for  she  looked  at  him,  so  it  seemed,  with 
a  certain  question  and  challenge  in  her  eye.  It  was 
as  if  she  weighed  his  answer,  or  took  it,  like  a  doubt- 
ful coin,  and  rang  it  to  test  its  genuineness. 

"I  shall  go  now,"  she  said,  still  lingering.  "Or  do 
you  not  wish  me  to  go?" 

She  paused  a  moment. 

"Why  do  you  not  wish  me  to  go,  Edward?"  she 
said. 

"I  want  you  to  do  just  as  you  wish,  dear,"  he  said. 

For  the  moment  a  certain  cloud  of  trouble  and 
restlessness,  quite  alien  to  her  normal  reasoning,  had 
seemed  to  disturb  her.  But  it  cleared,  and  she  spoke 
naturally  again. 

"We  lunch  there,  do  we  not?"  she  said.  "I  dare 
say  I  shall  not  come  again  before  that.  Till  lunch- 
time,  then." 

She  traversed  the  hall,  hesitated  as  to  whether  she 
should  take  a  hat,  decided  against  it,  and  went  out 
into  the  cool  spring  sunshine.  The  gate  of  com- 
munication between  the  two  gardens  (Mrs.  Han- 
cock had  eventually  decided  that  since  Edith  and 


HEART'S  DESIRE  343 

Edward  used  it  so  much  more  than  she  did  it  was 
only  reasonable  that  he  should  pay  for  half  of  it) 
had  been  made,  and  she  went  through  it,  leaving  it 
aswing,  with  a  tinkling  latch.  As  she  had  said  to 
Edward,  she  scarcely  knew  why  the  idea  of  Eliza- 
beth and  the  desire  to  see  her  had  taken  hold  of  her 
mind.  All  these  months  she  had  deliberately  and  of 
set  purpose  put  the  idea  of  Elizabeth  from  her,  con- 
sciously segregating  it,  refusing  it  admittance  into 
the  current  of  her  thoughts.  That  had  been  natural 
enough,  for  it  was  on  the  elimination  of  Elizabeth 
from  their  joint  lives  that  the  success  of  their  mar- 
riage, she  had  seen,  must  depend.  And  to-day  she 
had  registered,  had  contemplated  and  admitted  the 
fact  of  its  failure.  Elizabeth  had  not  been  elimi- 
nated from  their  lives;  when  just  now  Edith  had 
alluded,  casually  almost,  to  the  fact  of  Edward's 
being  in  love  with  her,  saying  she  did  not  blame 
Elizabeth  for  that,  he  had  let  that  pass  without  chal- 
lenge. It  had  not  occurred  to  him,  however  lamely, 
to  take  exception  to  it.  That  had  shown  with  a 
convincingness  that  she  had  not  known  before  how 
her  cousin  was  knitted  into  Edward's  heart.  It 
would  have  to  be  cut  to  bits  before  she  could  be  dis- 
entangled from  it. 

Quietly,  insensibly,  throughout  those  months  that 
conviction  had  been  growing  on  her.  It  had  been 
like  some  bulb  buried  in  the  earth;  she  had  known 
in  her  inner  consciousness,  though  there  was  no  out- 
ward evidence  of  the  fact,  that  it  was  growing.  To- 
day the  green,  vigorous  horn  of  its  sprouting  showed 
above  the  ground.  It  was  not  a  shock  to  her  any 
more  than  is  a  letter  that  confirms  the  bad  news 
conveyed  in  a  telegram.  But  its  authenticity  now 
was  quite  beyond  dispute.  In  those  seven  months 
of  their  marriage  Elizabeth's  spell  had  lost  none  of 
its  potency,  and  Edith  stood  between  them  just  as 


344  ARUNDEL 

she  had  done  on  the  day  when  she  had  decided  she 
could  not  give  him  up,  holding  them  apart. 

To-day,  too,  a  definite  doubt  had  come  into  her 
mind,  and  she  knew  that  her  desire  to  see  Elizabeth 
was  connected  with  its  possible  resolution.  Months 
ago  Elizabeth  had  told  her  that  no  idea  of  love  for 
Edward  had  ever  been  hers;  that  she  had  never 
thought  of  him  in  such  a  light.  To-day,  for  no  defi- 
nite reason,  but  by  process  probably  of  the  general 
enlightenment  that  her  misery  had  brought  her,  she 
wondered  if  that  was  true.  At  first  when  Elizabeth 
had  told  her  that,  she  had  implicitly  believed  it. 
Now  she  wondered  whether  Elizabeth  had  not  said 
that  for  her  sake;  whether,  seeing  thq^t  she  herself 
was  determined  not  to  give  Edward  up,  Elizabeth 
had  not  splendidly  lied.  Certainly  that  statement, 
true  or  not,  had  had  the  effect  of  making  Edith 
quite  comfortable,  as  her  mother  would  say.  A 
dozen  and  a  hundred  dozen  times  she  had  told  her- 
self, relying  on  that,  that  Edward  would  have  been 
no  nearer  his  happiness  if  she  had  given  him  up. 
But  Edith  did  not  so  far  deceive  herself  as  to  say 
that  it  would  have  made  any  difference  to  her  de- 
cision, even  if  Elizabeth  had  loved  him.  She  knew 
herself  but  poorly,  but  she  knew  herself  sufiBciently 
well  to  be  aware  that  nothing  in  the  world  just  then 
would  have  induced  her  voluntarily  to  give  him  his 
freedom.  It  had  been  open  to  him  to  break  his 
word,  and  not  marry  her,  but  it  had  not  seemed 
morally  possible  for  her  to  let  him  go. 

Elizabeth  was  just  coming  out  of  the  long  win- 
dow of  the  drawing-room  when  Edith  passed 
through  the  gate,  and  the  two  cousins  met  on  the 
croquet-lawn.  These  warm  days  of  May  had  made 
it  possible  to  play  already,  and  Edward,  at  his  wife's 
wish,  had  had  several  games  in  preparation  for  the 
Heathmoor  Tournament.     Ellis  this  morning  had 


HEART'S  DESIRE  345 

moved  several  seats  out  of  the  summer-house  on  to 
the  grass,  and  the  "Croquet  set  No.  1,  complete  in 
tin-lined  box"  (the  most  expensive  set  of  all  that 
could  be  bought  at  the  stores),  which  had  been  Mrs. 
Hancock's  wedding-present  to  Edward,  stood  open 
in  case  anybody  wished  to  play.  Just  a  year  ago, 
as  it  now  occurred  to  Edith,  she  had  sat  here  when 
Elizabeth  on  the  morning  after  her  arrival  from 
India  had  come  out.  She  remembered  how  almost 
on  the  first  mention  of  Edward's  name,  Elizabeth 
had  guessed  their  engagement. 

Edith  greeted  her  with  her  usual  precise  and  re- 
strained manner. 

"I  heard  you  and  Mrs.  Fanshawe  arrived  yester- 
day," she  said.  "Mother  was  looking  forward  to 
your  coming." 

Elizabeth  kissed  her. 

"I  was  glad  to  come,"  she  said.  "I  was  beginning 
to  be  afraid  I  should  never  see  Heathmoor  again." 

Edith  looked  at  her  a  moment  in  silence. 

"Did  you  want  to?"  she  asked. 

"Yes.  I  wanted  to  see  you,  too,  Edith.  I — I 
hope  you  are  happy." 

Edith  laughed  a  wretched  little  jangle  of  a  laugh. 

"I  am  very  comfortable,  mother  will  tell  you,"  she 
said.  "Edward  is  always  very  kind  to  me.  He  has 
made  a  great  deal  of  money  this  year.  He  comes 
back  from  town  every  evening  by  the  dinner  train. 
And  I  am  going  to  have  a  baby." 

The  semblance  of  ordinary  conversation  had  to  be 
kept  up  as  long  as  Edith  chose.  If  the  talk  was 
going  to  get  more  intimate,  the  deepening  of  it  had 
to  come  from  her.    Quite  suddenly  it  came. 

"I  am  very  unhappy,  Elizabeth,"  she  said.  "I 
have  not  had  a  single  happy  moment  since  I  mar- 
ried. It  has  all  turned  out  different  to  what  I  ex- 
pected.   I  wanted  Edward  so  much  that  I  could  not 


346  ARUXDEL 

give  him  up,  and  I  thought  that  by  degrees  he  would 
turn  to  me,  and — and  love  me.  He  never  loved  me. 
He  proposed  to  me  and  I  accepted  him  because  we 
both  thought  that  we  should  be  very  comfortable 
together.  So  we  should  have  been  if  he  had  not — 
had  not  fallen  in  love  with  you." 

Elizabeth  laid  her  hand  on  Edith's  knee. 

"My  dear,  is  there  any  need  to  speak  of  that?" 
she  said. 

Edith  turned  quickly  on  her.  All  her  secret  self, 
suppressed  through  those  months  which  by  rights 
should  have  been  months  of  such  wonderful  and 
magical  expansion,  fell  on  her,  struggling  to  be  al- 
lowed utterance.  When  she  came  Ijere,  with  no 
more  than  her  vague  desire  to  see  Elizabeth,  she  had 
not  guessetl  how  like  highwaymen  with  cudgels  and 
bludgeons  her  secret  walleil-up  life  would  attack  her, 
fighting  to  express  itself. 

"I  think  there  is  need  to  speak  of  it,"  she  said, 
"and  I  have  no  one  whom  I  can  speak  to  but  you. 
If  I  told  mother,  she  would — she  would  recommend 
me  to  see  Mr.  Martin;  if  I  told  Eflward,  he  would 
only  try  to  be  kinder  to  me.  Elizabeth,  his  kind- 
ness chokes  me.  I  can't  breathe  in  it.  It  has  all 
been  an  utter,  utter  failure.  I  thought  that  he  would 
get  to  love  me,  so  that  it  would  be  enough  for  me 
to  be  with  him  always:  I  thought  I  should  be  satis- 
fied to  be  his  wife.  I  thought,  too.  that  he  would 
be  happy  as  well  as  I.  for  I  was  not.  so  I  thought 
then,  entirely  selfish.  I  should  not  have  refused  to 
give  him  up,  if  I  had  thought  that  it  would  turn 
out  so  hopelessly.  Then  there  was  this  as  well ;  you 
did  not  love  him.  and  so  I  was  not  standing  in  the 
way  of  his  happiness." 

Elizabeth  felt  her  face  go  suddenly  white.  Had 
she,  too,  made  an  awful,  a  lifelong,  mistake?  She 
knew  the  integrity  of  her  purpose,  when  she  had 


HEART'S  DESIRE  347 

told  Edith  she  did  not  love  him,  how  she  had  said 
that  simply  and  solely  for  Edith's  sake,  so  that  hav- 
ing definitely  and  irrevocably  chosen  not  to  give 
Edward  up  she  might  not  be  the  prey  of  back- 
thoughts  and  gnawings.  But  what  if  all  this  misery, 
all  this  hunger,  this  unslaked  thirst  could  have  been 
avoided?  What  if  she  had  rejected  her  great  re- 
nunciation, had  avowed  her  love  for  Edward,  had 
given  rein  to  the  steeds  of  desire?  Had  her  re- 
nunciation been  no  more  than  some  savage  heathen 
rite,  some  mutilation  of  herself  and  him?  For  a  mo- 
ment the  very  foundations  of  her  world  seemed  to 
sway,  and  all  its  noble  superstructure  to  totter.  But 
Edith  did  not  notice  the  blanching  of  her  face,  nor 
saw  her  quivering  eyelids.  She  was  looking  fixedly 
at  the  spot  in  the  lawn  in  front  of  her  with  an  in- 
tent and  absent  air,  and  went  on  speaking  in  the 
same  unemotional  voice. 

"I  may  as  well  be  honest,"  she  said,  "because 
there  does  not  seem  to  be  much  else  left.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  I  should  not  have  done  differently  even 
if  you  had  loved  him.  I  did  not  care  two  straws  for 
your  happiness,  nor  for  his,  but  only  for  my  own. 
And  yet  I  did  love  him ;  I  was  passionately  fond  of 
him.  I  thought  I  could  make  him  love  me,  or  at 
any  rate  that  he  would  forget  you.  I  told  myself 
anyhow  that  it  was  but  a  sudden  wild  fancy  he  had 
for  you,  that  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  your  music. 
I  did  not  care  what  I  told  myself,  so  long  as  I  got 
him.  And  now  at  this  present  moment,  I  would 
give  anything  in  the  world  if  it  could  be  made  possi- 
ble that  I  should  still  love  him.  I  don't  love  him 
any  more.  I  am  not  even  jealous  that  he  loves  you. 
He  may  do  as  he  likes,  if  only  he  could  cease  being 
kind  to  me.  If  only  I  could  go  right  out  of  his  life, 
and  never  see  him  again.  But  that's  impossible. 
Soon  I  shall  be  the  mother  of  his  child.    And,  be- 


348  ARUNDEL 

sides,  mother  would  think  it  so  odd.  So  would  Mr. 
Martin.  They  would  call  me  wicked,  but  I  think  it 
is  really  much  wickeder  t-o  go  on  living  with  him. 
Yes,  all  the  time  that  I  was  trying  to  get  his  love  I 
was  only  poisoning  my  own.  I  was  poisoning  that 
which  was  dearer  to  me  than  anything  in  the  world. 
I  am  sorry  for  it  now.  It  lies  before  me  quite  dead, 
killed  by  me.  Well,  I  can  say  truthfully  that  I  am 
sorry.  When  you  have  committed  a  crime  like  that, 
the  only  possible  palliation  is  that  you  are  sorry. 
But  I  chd  love  him;  even  when  I  gave  my  love  that 
first  dose  of  poison  in  refusing  to  let  him  go,  I  loved 
him." 

She  got  up  in  agitation. 

"Let  no  one  say  I  did  not  love  him!"  she  cried 
in  a  voice  suddenly  strained  and  shrill. 

Elizabeth  got  up  also,  forcing  down  her  terror  at 
this  tragic  figure  suddenly  revealed  to  her,  and  full 
of  growing  pity. 

"E(Hth,  dear,  you  are  talking  wildly,"  she  said. 
"You  don't  know  what  you  are  saying." 

Edith  put  up  both  hands  to  her  head. 

"It  is  not  wild  talk,"  she  said,  "it  is  sober  truth. 
But  I  express  it  badly;  I  get  confused.  And  there 
was  something  I  wanted  to  ask  you.  Was  it  really 
true  what  you  told  me?" 

Then  her  face  changed.  The  hardness  and 
restraint  faded  from  it;  it  became  humanized  again 
by  suffering. 

"Elizabeth.  I  feel  so  ill,"  she  said.  "I  am  in  pain, 
in  great  pain!" 

Elizabeth  was  sitting  in  the  window  of  Edward's 
smoking-room  where  two  mornings  ago  he  and  Edith 
had  sat  talking  and  reading  before  she  came  over 
to  the  house  next  door.  Late  that  night  her  baby,  a 
seven-months  child,  had  been  born,  flickering  faintly 


HEART'S  DESIRE  349 

into  life  and  out  again,  and  now  in  the  room  over- 
head Edith  lay  dying.  An  hour  ago  she  had  asked 
to  see  Elizabeth,  but  had  passed  into  a  state  of  un- 
consciousness before  the  girl  could  come  to  her.  So 
now  Elizabeth  waited  near  at  hand  in  case  her 
cousin  rallied  again  and  again  wished  to  see  her. 
Edward,  in  the  room  upstairs,  had  promised  to  call 
her  at  once;  Mrs.  Hancock  watched  with  him. 

The  house  was  very  still  with  that  curious  still- 
ness that  comes  with  such  a  waiting.  Outside  the 
warm  May  wind  blew  in  at  the  window  laden  with 
the  scent  of  the  wallflowers  that  grew  just  outside, 
and  the  air  was  full  of  the  fragrance  and  chirrup- 
ings  of  spring.  At  the  gate  stood  IVIrs.  Hancock's 
motor,  which  had  just  brought  down  a  doctor  from 
London,  who  at  this  moment  was  holding  a  con- 
sultation with  Edith's  doctor  in  the  dining-room. 
Elizabeth  had  propped  open  the  door  of  the  room 
where  she  sat,  so  that  she  might  hear  him  come  out, 
and  get  a  word  with  him,  but  she  had  been  told 
there  was  no  hope  that  her  cousin  would  live. 
Above  her  head,  from  the  room  where  Edith  lay, 
came  an  occasional  footstep,  sounding  dim  and 
muflfled,  and  she  could  hear  the  slow  tick  of  the 
clock  in  the  hall  outside.  She  guessed,  she  believed 
with  certainty,  what  it  was  Edith  wanted  to  say 
to  her,  namely,  to  repeat  the  question  that  had  been 
cut  short  by  the  coming  of  her  pains  two  days  be- 
fore. And  Elizabeth  knew  how  she  would  answer 
it. 

She  sat  there  long  in  silence,  alert  for  any  noise 
that  should  come  from  the  house.  Then  the  dining- 
room  door,  where  the  physicians  were  consulting, 
opened,  and  she  w^ent  out  to  meet  them  in  the  hall. 
A  couple  of  sentences  told  her  all,  and  the  London 
specialist  walked  out  to  the  motor  waiting  for  him, 
while  the  other  went  upstairs  again  to  the  silent 


350  ARUNDEL 

room.  From  outside  came  the  whirr  of  the  engines 
as  Denton  started  them  again, 

Elizabeth  sat  down  on  the  bottom  step  of  the 
stairs,  her  mind  quite  still  and  inactive.  Occasion- 
ally, like  a  cloud  taking  substance  suddenly  in  a 
serene  sky,  some  remembered  scene,  some  sentence, 
some  trivial  happening  connected  with  Edith,  ap- 
peared there,  forming  itself  and  vanishing  again, 
and  more  tlian  once  Edith's  voice  sounded  in  her 
ears  aS  she  said,  "Let  no  one  say  that  I  did  not  love 
him."  But  for  the  most  part  the  imminence  of  the 
great  silent  event  that  they  were  all  waiting  for 
kept  her  mind  vacant.  In  that  presence  she  could 
not  think  of  anything  else;  those  little  things  that 
kept  occurring  to  her  seemed  to  come  from  outside. 

Then  she  heard  a  stir  above  her.  the  click  of  an 
opened  door,  and,  looking  round  and  up,  she  saw 
Edward  beckoning  to  her. 

"She  has  asked  for  you,"  he  said,  as  she  entered. 

Edith  was  lying  on  her  bed.  looking  with  wide- 
open  eyes  at  the  ceiling.  She  did  not  seem  to  notice 
Elizabeth's  entrance,  but  the  doctor  beckoned  to 
her,  and  she  knelt  down  at  the  right  of  the  bed. 
Then  he  went  back  and  stood  some  little  distance 
oiBf  by  the  window.  The  breeze  streamed  in  through 
the  open  sash,  making  the  blind  tassel  rattle  and 
tap  against  the  wall,  but  otherwise  there  was  dead 
silence. 

Then  suddenly  Edith  spoke. 

*T  want  to  see  Elizabeth,"  she  said.  "Will  not 
Elizabeth  come?" 

Elizabeth  got  up. 

"I  am  here,  Edith,"  she  said. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you  alone,"  she  said.  "No- 
body else  must  hear." 

She  had  turned  her  eyes  to  the  girl  as  she  bent 
over  her,  and  waited,  looking  at  her  with  a  fixed, 


HEART'S  DESIRE  351 

anxious  expression,  till  the  others  had  gone  into  the 
dressing-room  adjoining. 

"We  are  alone?"  she  asked.  "Then  tell  me.  Did 
you  love  him?" 

Elizabeth  bent  lower  over  her  and  kissed  her. 

"Yes,  dear  Edith,"  she  said.  "I  always  loved 
him." 

"Then — then  you  must  get  him  to  forgive  me. 
Perhaps  he  will  forgive  me?    Do  you  think  he  will?" 

Elizabeth  took  hold  of  the  white,  wet  hand  that 
lay  outside  the  coverlet. 

"Oh,  my  dear!"  she  said. 

"Ask  him  to  come,  then,"  said  Edith  faintly. 
"Quickly,  quickly!" 

Next  moment  they  stood  together  by  the  bed. 
Her  lips  moved  once,  but  no  sound  came  from  them. 
Only  her  eyes,  over  which  lay  the  deepening 
shadow,  looked  from  one  to  the  other  and  back 
again. 


ilh 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


NOV  3      195b 

JUL  X  6  1958 

SEP  18^ 


Form  Lu-6umil,'oU(25a4}444 


PiNlA 


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UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACIUTy 


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